


The Taming of the Terrible Dragon

by DroughtofApathy



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Alternate Universe - World War I, Angst, F/F, First Time, Insecurity, Internalized Homophobia, Pining, Religious Guilt, Russian Diaspora
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29796888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DroughtofApathy/pseuds/DroughtofApathy
Summary: In the wake of the Bolshevik Revolution, Marya Dmitryevna flees Moscow with the rest of Russia's elite. With no money and no status, Marya must brave the dangers of wartime factories to survive. And worse, in a cruel twist of fate she's become flatmates with none other than the Queen of Society herself, Elena Kuragina. Happily divorced, and still every bit the beloved socialite, Elena drinks and dances her weekends away, much to Marya's disapproval. But when Hélène brings home a giggling young woman and pleasures her on the side of Marya's wall while she listens in...horror...it awakens something in Marya that can never be put back to sleep.
Relationships: Marya Dmitryevna Akhrosimova/Elena "Hélène" Vasilyevna Kuragina
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	The Taming of the Terrible Dragon

**Author's Note:**

> This idea hit me over the head in the middle of the night and now here we are. It was only supposed to be maybe 15k words, and instead it's 35k, but that's fine. A few things to note: Hélène is pretty mean in the beginning, but it all works out. Marya had a lot of religious guilt and internalized homophobia, but don't worry, she's okay. There are also a lot of Comet, Hadestown, and In the Green references because I deserve this.

Terrible Dragon though she may have been, Marya Dmitryevna had never been under any false illusion about her tenuous place in society’s upper echelons. She knew her only value came from her acerbic tongue and willingness to abandon any sense of filter she might have otherwise possessed. A silly little bit of entertainment at the lesser soirées. Little more than a glorified court jester, she sometimes thought in her darker moments.

A lesser woman might have been insulted that her entire persona could be reduced to something so base, so monstrous, yet Marya clung to her reputation like a lifeline. To lose her edge, her wit, her position, would be the end of her.

With no titles to her name, no riches in her coffers, Marya Dmitryevna Akhrosimova needed to be _Le Terrible Dragon_ or risk social ostracization of a caliber not even her beloved goddaughter could ever hope to mend.

When the revolution came to Moscow, Marya prayed to God she would survive. Almost entirely bloodless though it may have been, in the end it devastated and destroyed everything Marya had left to her name. Everyone she knew, each and every one of the Russian nobility, planned to flee. Far away, to France or America or beyond. If Marya remained behind, she would surely be alone and facing an inevitable destitution no amount of candor could fix. But to leave… To leave would be to shatter her own heart against the frozen streets.

How could she even consider abandoning her homeland for the unknown? Here, in Russia, she had four sons and a husband in the ground. Out there, she had naught by a prayer. But dear Natasha and Pierre had already made arrangements to leave by the week’s end, leaving Marya no choice but to sell off what she could and follow.

On and on Natasha had chattered as they rode out on the train, leaving behind the only life they ever knew. All about Paris and the beauty of this strange, modern, cultured land. She left no doubt in Marya’s heart that she would thrive no matter where she went. Such a darling young woman would captivate all who knew her. And with Pierre and his generous heart, she would never want for anything.

Not like Marya. Marya who could not swallow her dignity or pride and allow her dear friend to feed and house her forever like some pathetic charity case. Resigned to a bleak and humiliating future of labor and hardship, Marya remained uncharacteristically silent on the road to France.

In their train carriage alone, Marya could recognize each and every face. Anna Pavlovna, Princess Marya Bolkonskaya, Prince Ippolit Kuragin. The only one in the Kuragin family, Marya thought with no small sum of distaste, with any redeemable qualities even if he was terribly stupid. No one met her eye. Out of fear or caution, she knew not. It was no secret among the elite that she had nothing to her name. And no one had any desire to be the one stuck with providing for her.

Out of the silence, a shrill little giggle pierced the air and Marya turned sharply to glare across the train car. There, surrounded by a vapid little entourage, sat Elena Kuragina. And oh, it just figured she would be so callous and empty-headed as to feel any sort of joy after what had happened. What they had all lost.

After the scandalous divorce, Marya had dearly hoped that Hélène Kuragina would tuck tail and flee far, far away from her ex-husband, his new wife, and yes, Marya herself. But instead the infuriating little minx had remained, still wealthy, still influential, still beloved by all. Never had there been a woman in existence to stay farther away from, and yet there she sat, on her way to Paris with the rest of them. Holding court as though her titles still meant something.

As if sensing Marya’s disapproving gaze, Elena’s eyes met hers and the shameless woman had the gall to smile. A sarcastic quirk of her pink lips, brimming with smug amusement. How Marya longed to smack that look right off her face. But no, Marya was a good Christian woman. She would not resort to base violence over the likes of Elena Kuragina.

With a final sneer, Marya turned away and resolved to put that woman out of her mind for good. With any luck, Hélène would settle far away from everyone she knew. Wouldn’t that be a miracle?

\-----

As the first few weeks in France passed by, each day more agonizing than the next, Marya Dmitryevna’s situation grew ever more dire. Unable to afford even the basest flats along the outskirts of the city, and struggling to find any sort of work at all, Marya remained in Pierre’s home to her great shame. Oh, both he and Natasha insisted they adored having her around, but she knew better. She saw how they yearned to be alone together, and wanted nothing more than to let them be, but alas she could only go out each day in search of work that did not exist.

Nearing the end of her rope, Marya considered prostrating herself to her other goddaughter, Sonya. Dear, sweet, loving little Sonya. Against all odds, Sofia Rosova had become a companion of sorts to the daughter of the late Prince Bolkonsky. After his death – a long-awaited one, if Marya said so herself – that French girl he had kept around had fled back to her homeland before the revolution could even begin, and his mousy little daughter had taken a liking to Sonya. Now, to Marya’s genuine happiness and relief, she too wanted for nothing and would remain in good comfort so long as the princess showered her with affection. And though Princess Mary might have been plain and at times pathetic, she was kind and cared for Sonya. She would not turn her out with nothing.

In the wake of that terrible night, all those long years ago when Natasha had nearly been spirited away and then almost ended her young life, Marya and Sonya had come to an understanding. Though they might never be as close as they were to Natasha, Marya no longer dismissed the young redhead out of hand. Yes, she did care for Sonya. Quite a bit. But she did not know if Sonya cared enough for her to take her in. And fear of rejection was a paralyzing thing indeed.

The answer to all her problems came in the form of what surely must have been the Lord’s idea of a grand joke. Or better yet, Satan himself deciding to have a laugh at her expense.

Pierre and Elena may have despised each other throughout their disastrous marriage, yet upon their divorce seemed far more amiable than Marya ever thought possible. They would never be friends, to her satisfaction, but against all advice, Natasha had forgiven and taken a shine to the other woman. Utterly foolish, in Marya’s staunch opinion. But even in her childhood, Natasha seemed to be one of the only people in existence who did not fear Marya’s ire.

So, when Marya returned to the Bezukhov household after yet another unsuccessful attempt to find work, and she saw Hélène Kuragina lounging on the sofa in a dress just barely skirting the lines of modesty, it came as no great surprise, if terribly unpleasant. Lips pressed into a thin line, Marya passed the other woman without a glance. She could feel the beginnings of a migraine behind her eyes and the tension in her lower back only grew tighter with every step.

“Don’t tell me you’ve still neglected to gain any manners, Marya, dear,” Hélène drawled, stopping the other woman in her tracks. “Not even a ‘hello’ for me?”

“Is there a reason you insist on trying my patience, Countess?” Marya replied, arching an eyebrow. She’d been wound up tighter than she’d ever been in the past several weeks, and if Hélène Kuragina insisted on antagonizing her, Marya knew she would likely lose her mind. “We both know what I think of you. Let us dispense of these trivial niceties and carry on ignoring each other’s existence.”

“You needn’t be so testy, _ma chérie_ ,” Hélène replied, the picture of ease. “You know how us arguing does so upset your dear goddaughter.” In fact, Marya and Hélène had not personally spoken in nearly a year, as far as Marya could recall. Not that she spent a great deal of time thinking of their interactions, of course.

“And is there a reason you’ve decided to goad me into this senseless little chatter?” Were she in her own home, had she any of her former reputation to maintain, Marya would have gladly dressed Hélène down without regard for social propriety. As it was, it would be in poor taste to insult a welcomed guest in her goddaughter’s house while she relied on her charity.

“Oh, nothing of note. I’ve merely come to proposition you, darling,” Hélène said, snickering when Marya gaped at her, struck speechless at the absolute gall. “Close your mouth, Marya. I’ve been conversing with Natasha, of course, and she’s mentioned you are in the market for a place to stay. After all, you surely can’t stay here for any longer.”

“Be that as it may,” Marya replied with immense self-restraint. “I fail to see how that is any of your business.”

“Well, I happen to have a lovely little flat in the heart of the city,” Hélène said, breezing right by the open hostility. “Paris, you know. Not this countryside manor with no jobs for miles. And it just so happens to have a spare room. A small one, to be sure, but I daresay your situation has gotten quite desperate.”

Floored at the other woman’s absolute gall, Marya barked out a bitter laugh. Of all the absurd things to leave Hélène Kuragina’s mouth this one had to take the cake. The very idea that Marya would ever stoop to such odious living conditions was laughable. Absolutely laughable. She’d sooner fling herself from the nearest bell tower.

“What exactly do you hope to gain by insulting me in this manner?” Marya demanded, surging forward to tower over the reclining woman. “In no universe would you ever willingly allow me to live in the same space as you do. Especially given that you well know that I cannot- Not all of us are dripping with endless funds, Elena. What is it you really want?”

At last losing that saccharine smile of hers, Hélène sat up for perhaps the first time in her life. She patted the cushion next to her with a look that made clear she would not relent. And Marya Dmitryevna was not a woman to concede. She sat, as she was sure they both expected her to, in an armchair a safe distance away.

“Oh, I don’t particularly care either way. I’m only stating a fact. I happen to have a spare room I would not mind renting out to a near-destitute woman in need. It is a dreadfully small room, so we needn’t act as though I’ve suddenly grown a heart. And if it is money you worry about, I will waive the first week of rent. You and I are well aware you could not pay it anyway. Now, are you going to look a gift horse in the mouth, or swallow that noble pride of yours and take what is offered?”

Hélène had her, Marya knew. An offer like this could not be scorned, no matter how Marya wished she could laugh this woman out of the house. She needed a room to stay, and if this flat truly was in a prime location, it would mean greater work opportunities and easier commutes. Marya needed this.

So, forcibly swallowing back her disgust, Marya nodded. “But I want a contract drawn up. Something that states you cannot simply throw me out on a whim if you suddenly change your mind. And we shall negotiate the price once I have had time to assess what such living arrangements are worth. I am no fool, Elena, and you will not take me for one.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Hélène replied, daring to pretend she had a semblance of professionalism about her. “Now. It’s so dreadfully inconvenient that dear Pierre and Natasha live so far from the beauty that is the heart of _Paris_. I plan to head back tonight. Will you be ready by then?” It was not an inquiry.

With a stiff nod, Marya rose and started to the room she’d occupied for several weeks but had yet to settle into. Running on the hope she could have found her own place at any moment, Marya had neglected to unpack most of her personal affects. Not that she had much of anything left after selling off most things of value for an insultingly low price. Too many family heirlooms and trinkets of sentimental value had gone into the grubby, greedy hands of those looking to get rich off of the misfortune of others.

What few things remained scattered about the room took mere moments to fold away, and Marya soon stood, once again, holding every single worldly possession she owned. When she emerged, jaw set and ready to face her odious savior, she found Pierre and Natasha waiting to see her off. The idea that they’d known Hélène’s offer, and fully expected her to take it left a bitter taste in Marya’s mouth, but she said her gracious goodbyes and set off with a promise from her goddaughter that they would visit her soon.

The train ride from Moscow to Paris would remain Marya’s most devastating trip in her life, but the journey alongside Hélène Kuragina to a tiny spare room came in a close second. As they rode in silence, Marya could only imagine one nightmare scenario after another. A broom cupboard of a room, an elaborate scheme to humiliate Marya further, a nefarious murder plot. And granted, that last one might have been edging on hysterics, but Marya refused to rule it out.

One shock after another it seemed that day, Marya thought as they arrived in front of Hélène’s apartment building. Hélène not even offering to aid her in carrying her bags was unsurprising, but the building itself, well… It was not nearly as grand as she’d imagined a woman of Hélène’s wealth would reside in. Nor was it a horrific excuse of a building Marya feared would house disease. The lobby was modest, yet clean and the man behind the front desk greeted them politely. The building even came with an elevator. Something Marya tried desperately not to gawk out and only partially thought she succeeded.

“Home sweet home,” Hélène announced, unlocking the door of the third-floor flat with a flourish. Inside, Marya could see hints of the opulent Russian society they’d both left behind. Clean, spacious, and far more instantly comfortable than Marya thought ever possible. This was a place Marya could make herself at home in, much to her irritation.

Through the gauzy curtains, she could see a park across the road, streetlamps illuminating the wrought-iron gates. A better place than Marya would ever afford on her own. She resolved then and there to do what she could to keep an air of civility between herself and Hélène.

“I wish to extend my gratitude,” Marya said with as much diplomacy as she could muster given the time of night.

“You needn’t make it sound as though it pains you to do so,” Hélène replied and Marya scowled back, regretting the slim olive branch she’d thought might be at least tolerated, if not well-received. “Now. Tomorrow we can work out that contract of yours and all the little house details. Shall I show you to your room, darling?”

The room being a small annex towards the back of the flat. It had space enough for a single bed, a nightstand, a dresser, and little else. Only a pinned curtain separated it from the rest of the flat, but Marya supposed it would do, even if her much-valued privacy would have to adapt. She could look out the window at the park or up at the stars, she had room enough to sleep comfortably, she had a place she could make her own.

“Washroom is across the hall, and my room is on the other side of that wall should you need me,” Hélène said, stepping back into the hallway. “ _Bon nuit, ma chére._ ”

“Good night, Elena,” Marya murmured, unable to bring herself to speak French. Not until the curtain swung back into place and she heard the click of Hélène’s bedroom door shutting did Marya move from her spot in the doorway. She couldn’t stop staring at the bedspread. The red duvet. Marya did not believe in coincidences. This bed had not come dressed in such an unusual color. But then, the only alternative was that Hélène had chosen this for her. Why, then? Too mock her? Or…or was it yet another kindness from a woman Marya thought irredeemably selfish?

Too exhausted and overwhelmed to dwell any longer on it, Marya pushed aside her tumultuous musings and began the arduous process of unlacing a too-tight corset to ready herself for bed.

Marya hoped that perhaps the knowledge that she finally had a bed, somewhat, of her own might ease the fitful sleep she’d experienced since leaving behind her beloved Russia. It did not. She lay awake, tossing and turning in an unfamiliar bed as all her old anxieties and fears came rearing back to bite. What would happen when the week ended and Marya still had yet to find any way to support herself? She couldn’t stomach the idea of returning to Natasha, once more a failure. Her goddaughter had always thought the world of her. To disappoint her, to prove Marya was little more than a woman masquerading as a dragon. No. No that would never do.

Worse, she would have to face Hélène. Hélène who would gladly mock her in that saccharine way of hers. Hélène, another who had never feared _le terrible dragon_. No contract on earth could prevent Hélène from turning Marya out on the streets when she could not pay.

And Marya Dmitryevna Akhrosimova was not a young woman. She had not been one in a very long time. Options limited, and survival a near-impossibility without a means to support herself, Marya resolved to redouble her efforts. And, she relented with no small sliver of regret, lower her standards.

\-----

A few hours of fitful sleep later, Marya woke to the smell of coffee. The sun had yet to even rise above the horizon and yet somehow she could hear Hélène bustling about the kitchen. Nonplussed, Marya made quick use of the washroom before joining the other woman. She expected Hélène to be wearing some scandalously short nightdress, or something equally obscene, but instead the younger woman wore a pretty green dress with more class than Marya had ever seen her in before.

Embarrassed at her state of undress, Marya clutched her dressing gown tighter around herself and hesitated just outside the kitchen. She had no makeup, her years etched onto her face, and her greying red curls escaped last night’s plait.

“Help yourself,” Hélène said, waving a hand in the direction of the cabinet that presumably housed mugs.

“Thank you,” Marya murmured. The black coffee warmed her belly and eased the tension behind her eyes. “I did not know you usually woke so early.”

“Morning shift,” Hélène explained with an easy shrug. “I shall be back later this afternoon and we can negotiate to your heart’s content, _ma chérie._ ”

Meant to be a term of endearment, Marya harbored no doubt Hélène meant it in the most derogatory way possible. But Marya had promised herself she would not instigate arguments so instead she merely sipped her coffee and idly inquired as to what job Hélène had to go to.

“Telephone operator,” Hélène said. “I quite enjoy it actually. Helping out the war effort does so have that _je ne said quoi_ about it. Would you like me to see if they have any job availability?”

About to insist Hélène not bother, Marya looked up in time to see Hélène’s smug, snide little smile that told her the other woman well knew she’d tried to no avail.

“Must you be so insufferable?” Marya snapped, already feeling her migraine returning with a vengeance.

“Oh, is the Great Dragon of Moscow unable to handle the same acidity she’s so well known for? I did not take you for a kitten, Marya.”

Marya wanted to shred this impertinent woman before her. She wanted to eviscerate her as she had so many nobles in the past. Instead, she felt a lump in her throat. And that would mean tears. Tears she refused to shed over the likes of Elena Kuragina.

“There are no dragons in Paris,” she said in a gravely voice. “And you know as well as I do that your job would not suit me, so you needn’t resort to your smirking. Now, if you will excuse me, I must dress.”

Abandoning her half-finished coffee, Marya spun on her heel with the intent of shutting herself in her room until Hélène left. But the impertinent woman could not leave well enough alone.

“It is your French, _ma chérie_.”

Marya stopped, exhaled heavily, and turned back. “What of it? If you mean to criticize me, I refuse to accept the woman who cannot pronounce simple words has any leverage here.” But Marya knew Hélène spoke the truth. Oh, she understood French as well as the rest of the Russian nobility. Could understand the rapid speak of a native speaker without great hardship. She could conjugate verbs with precision. And yet…

“A purposeful _accent aigu_ , I assure you. But we are speaking of your French. You will never disguise your native accent, Marya. All those years you refused to speak the French language has now come back to haunt you. You are out of practice unlike those of us who embraced the beauty of the dialect. The telephone company or indeed any office is unlikely to hire you because of that. Surely you recognize such a thing. And, if I may be frank, Masha, you are not a young woman. The men want something pretty to look at, after all.”

“Was your only intent when offering me a room in your home to insult me without reprieve? I am well aware of these statements you make. No, I am not young. I have not been young in many a decade. And yes, I will never speak the way that is acceptable here. But I have no need of some _godless_ woman’s judgment and scorn. And don’t you ever, _ever,_ call me Masha again. I am tired, Elena. But I will not be a mat for you to tread all over.”

Looking more amused than anything, Hélène raised her mug in a mocking toast and shouldered her purse. She sailed out the door before Marya could say anything else. Feeling brittle and exposed, Marya scrubbed both mugs within an inch of their lives. The water scalded her hands, but she paid it no mind. The heat grounded her, soothed her, let her breathe once more.

Perhaps she would never work in an office or a fancy telephone company as Hélène did, but she _would_ find work. Even if it meant braving the factories.

Especially if it meant braving the factories.

\-----

Nightfall came, and at last Marya slunk from the elevator to the apartment door. Despondency clung to her skin, and humiliation had taken up permanent residence in the pit of her stomach. Every muscle in her body ached, and she both dreaded and longed for Hélène’s presence in the flat. After all. She had no key.

The idea of admitting she’d finally found a job, only to disclose its nature sent shocks of shame up Marya’s aching limbs. In a fit of intense pride, Marya debated lying. She could claim she’d managed to secure that office position after all, or maybe a respectable seamstress job at a small but renown boutique. But no, Hélène would find out sooner or later, and only make the revelation more humiliating for her.

Deeming her attempt to fix up her frazzled and unkempt appearance using the reflection in the window glass futile, Marya heaved a grand sigh and knocked on the door.

“I’d begun to think you’d turned tail and fled back to-” Hélène paused mid-sentence, catching a glimpse of Marya’s drawn face and unruly state. For once, her surprise overruled that damnable _laisse-faire_ attitude of hers. “Hm. Well, no matter. Have you eaten yet?”

Marya shook her head, unable to even begin to fathom how she would muster the energy to prepare something. And she certainly had no money to dine on fine French cuisine as she was certain Hélène did each and every night. Even with the war rations, the rich still found a way. Though she tried to deny she was even hungry at all, her traitorous stomach chose that exact moment to make its presence known.

Cheeks blotchy with heat, Marya crossed her arms over her midriff as is to prevent any other embarrassing noises from being heard. She set her jaw and waited for the inevitable ridicule, but Hélène merely clicked her tongue and pointed to the table with a single place setting with a half-eaten meal of potatoes and overcooked meat. Mere civilian rations, Marya realized as she sat opposite the unfinished plate. Not black-market goods. Not something prepared by a gourmet chef.

“We can pool our rations in the future, but tonight this will have to do,” Hélène said, sliding the plate across the table. “Eat. And then we can talk about this contract. I’ve taken the liberty of beginning it, but I will of course take any amendments you may have into account, _ma chérie_.”

Marya stared down at the plate, shocked and suspicious. To share a plate implied a degree of intimacy Marya had not shared with anyone before. Not even her late husband. Somehow it struck her as less shameful to instead politely turn down Hélène’s offer and remain without, but she’d eaten naught but a stale bit of bread that day and hunger won out over her boundless pride. She ate with abandon, distantly conscious of Hélène’s watchful gaze, and left not a crumb behind.

“Thank you,” she said, averting her gaze with a hot flush on her cheeks. “Truly. I am grateful, Elena. You needn’t have done this.”

“Yes, well,” Hélène said, waving away Marya’s gratitude with an airy wave of her hand. Her soft, uncalloused, dainty hand that had never once seen the dregs of hard labor. How deeply Marya envied her. “I could not very well let you starve on your first day here. Especially after such a grueling day of work. I take it you found a position?”

“I- yes, I did.” She did not want to admit her work involved hours upon hours hunched over loud and dangerous machines, performing the same task over and over until she no longer had need of a conscious mind or functioning brain. She did not want to speak of a day spent desperately trying to acquaint herself with unfamiliar words her childhood French tutors had not accounted for. She did not want to confess she still did not understand half of what the other worker said as they tried to explain function of each tool. She did not want to linger over her abysmal pay that could scarcely cover her meals, let alone the rent Hélène likely expected.

She was exhausted and aching from nearly twelve unrelenting hours in a skirt too long, and a corset too tight. All around her, women half her age had worked with twice her speed, all whispering about the giant redheaded Russian amongst their ranks. The girl beside her had barely come to her elbow, and looked scarcely older than fourteen. Yet she worked with more precision and skill than Marya could even begin to fathom.

“Shall we look over the contract then?”

The paper Hélène handed her contained an itemized list of clauses, all written in elegant cursive. All in a language Marya had spent the day struggling to understand. Seeing that contract, riddled as it was with unfamiliar words that only made plainer how non-fluent Marya truly was, split open the seams of the wounds Marya had tried desperately to hold together.

“Excuse me, I-”

Marya fled. At her wits end and on the verge of tears, she barricaded the bathroom door and let out an aborted little sob that horrified her haughty and stoic nature. Surely, she was better than this. Surely God would not abandon her after a lifetime of reverent worship to an existence of demeaning labor and cruel companionship.

From the mirror, a filthy and exhausted woman stared back at her. A woman who had nothing left. A woman stripped of her dignity and pride. A woman who had chosen to instead to break down in a bathroom rather than disparage the creature who dared slight her in this way. Ashamed and disgusted with herself, Marya sank down onto the cold tile and just sobbed.

When the revolution had come, she’d not shed a single tear. When she’d sold off her mother’s jewels, she’d remained stoic. When she’d abandoned her motherland for this awful place, she’d not cried. But this, no. This she could not withstand.

Alone on the bathroom floor of a flat belonging to her greatest antagonist, Marya Dmitryevna mourned the life she had lost, and wept for the life she would be forced to lead. But her pitiful blubbering offered her no catharsis. Only shame at her own weakness. Surely a dragon lady like herself could survive a work environment even children withstood. Surely she was not so pathetic she could not dry her tears and swallow down this melancholy. Or was she truly so frail and decrepit as to give up after just one day?

The answer, Marya decided, taking in great gasping breaths, was no. No. Marya Dmitryevna Akhrosimova had not survived four childbirths, the loss of a husband when her eldest wasn’t even yet a grown man, the deaths of each and every one of her boys, and the fall of a dynasty to be beaten by a grueling factory job and a morally bankrupt woman with no empathy to speak of.

A vigorous wash would do her good, Marya decided, scrubbing away her tears. Then, clean and poised once more, then she could emerge and face the demon in the kitchen.

But when at last Marya emerged, feeling human for the first time since waking up that very morning, Hélène was already gone. A single light remained, illuminating the bare table save for a single sheet of paper. That damnable contract. Very well, Marya decided, retrieving her reading glasses from her bedroom. Unsophisticated though her more technical French may have been, she could manage this.

Yet, as Marya scanned the first line, she saw an alphabet she knew and loved well. The script still elegant, yet hurried. A last-minute translation to ease her struggle. The contract established an impossibly low rent cost, one that Marya knew was not remotely proper. As small as her bedroom may have been, she should have been made to pay twice the amount Hélène had listed. Had the other woman made a mistake in her haste to rewrite it? Surely she must have moved a decimal place too far over. But no, the French contract gave the same low number.

And with a cost like that, no other clause truly mattered. Oh certainly, Marya appreciated that Hélène would be unable to throw her out on a whim, and the household chore distribution struck her as rather lopsided, but she supposed given Hélène would shoulder the majority of the financial burden, Marya would have to adapt.

She signed her name with an elaborate loop. And that was that. She officially had a place to stay, a job, a churlish roommate, and a grim determination to face down all three with every ounce of her great dragon strength and poise.

And so it came to pass that Marya Dmitryevna Akhrosimova and Hélène Kuragina became unlikely flatmates in the heart of Paris. They soon settled into an uneasy routine. No matter how early she awoke, Marya could never seem to beat Hélène to the coffee pot. It rankled her to no end that her morning coffee came at the expense of her dignity. Every sip was just one more thing Marya owed to that damnable woman.

Thrice weekly, Hélène cooked. And each time she did, Marya couldn’t help herself. She sat on the faded green sofa and pretended not to watch avidly. She supposed she might have tried to muster up even a hint of gratitude that the other woman could fix something edible, but Marya had never been anything but spiteful. How a woman who had lived a life of privilege, with cooks and servants catering to her every whim, managed to move about so seamlessly after such a drastic lifestyle shift, she could not fathom.

Not like her. Marya, who still struggled to prepare the most basic of meals. She shuddered to recall her first few attempts at preparing a simple meat and potato dinner. It had been humiliating to have to serve Hélène something barely edible, but with the rations so limited, they’d had little option but to muddle through. The pitying expression on Hélène’s face had been worse than any sneering remark.

The next several subsequent attempts had yielded no better results, and Marya had spent each meal staring resolutely down at her pitiful attempt at cooking. But Hélène had not insulted her by revoking her cooking privileges. And by the third week, Marya could manage well enough that she no longer felt the need to avoid all eye-contact.

Petty though it may have been, Marya wanted Hélène to fail at something. She wanted some sort of proof that this was the same woman who had caused her so much grief in the past. Instead, Hélène just had to be some sort of domestic goddess who scrubbed toilets and wrung bedsheets without complaint. She’d been the one to teach Marya proper laundering techniques, and goodness that had been mortifying.

Much as she tried, Marya simply could not reconcile the woman who still took great pleasure in belittling Marya’s every move with the woman who charged her half the market value and said nothing about the state of her when Marya returned home filthy and aching. The woman who sneered at Marya’s insistence on wearing her floor-length skirts and modest necklines could not be the same one who had left a small lavender sachet next to her pillow to ease her insomnia.

Confused as she was, Marya still included Hélène in her prayers each Sunday. Ah Sundays. Her day of long-awaited rest. Her salvation after five grueling days hunched over weaponry she could never hope to understand, and a Saturday of unrelenting chores. Sundays meant comfort and peace. Though she yearned for the services of her motherland, Marya craved her weekly worship. It mattered not what language she expressed her exaltation, or murmured beloved scripture.

Hélène never did accompany Marya to these blessed services. No, instead Hélène spent each night prior keeping the memory of who she once was alive and well. Seeing Hélène in her silks and fair finery comforted Marya and perturbed her in equal measure.

Every Saturday night, while Marya indulged in her one remaining luxury – a steaming bath with just a few drops of the scented oils Hélène had procured from a black market vendor – Hélène painted and powdered herself more heavily than any self-respecting woman should. Out came those vile dresses that bared her arms and showcased her bosom. A lesser person might stare. Not Marya. No, Marya had no desire to let her gaze linger on such immodesty, and instead began prolonging her soaks.

The first night Hélène had barged into the washroom during Marya’s bath had sent the redhead into a fit of indignant fury. But Hélène had merely cackled at her from the other side of the curtain and continued gazing at herself in the looking glass.

“You act as though I’ve climbed in that tub with you, _ma chérie_ ,” Hélène had laughed, unaware of Marya glaring at her silhouette. The very idea sent an angry flush down Marya’s face and over her pale chest.

Mortified and thoroughly convinced Hélène would rip open the curtain just to humiliate her, Marya had tucked her knees up against her chest and stewed in anger until at last the other woman had sailed out of the flat on her way to some godless den of iniquity, no doubt. Eventually, though, Hélène’s presence during Marya’s baths became little more than a nuisance, and Marya merely grumbled and groaned, but let her be.

Hélène never spoke of where she went each week. But Marya knew. In her heart, deep down, she knew. She’d heard tell of the salons and soirées that had begun anew in this strange French land. Of Anna Pavlova and her parties where the exiled Russian elite would while their woes away in some desperate attempt to live in some land of yesteryear. They drank away their sorrows, and dressed in their Russian finery and did not think to extend an invitation to the Dragon of Moscow.

Not, Marya always thought with a decisive snort as she sank back into the steaming water of her perfectly decent bathtub, that she would have wasted her time attending anyway. No, the days of mindless little galas and trite insults were long over. With a war going on out there in the world, the idea of frittering away her money on some absurd jaunt appealed little to the sensible and prim Marya.

She refused to admit, even and especially to herself, that being forgotten and excluded stung more than Marya thought possible. She did however admit to a sharp sense of relief when the weeks passed and still no invitation came her way. The few clothes she had carried the stains and hardships of a factory life, and her best church dress still paled in comparison to the worst dress she’d owned in Moscow. The Russian elites may have sold off many of their trinkets and jewels, but not all. Hélène certainly proved that.

No, Marya had no desire to be mocked and ridiculed for her apparent poverty when she could curl up on the faded green sofa with her bible and a few drops of black market alcohol in her tea. Hélène and her rib-cracking corsets could go cavorting about with counts and princes to her heart’s content. Marya would remain at home in her cozy worn dressing gown. After all, this was the only time she had the flat to herself where she could relish in the peace and quiet. And wallow in her own self-pity.

An act she took great pleasure in on the Saturday leading up to Christmas. Not even a war could dim the festive spirit that blanketed Paris. Always before, Marya had adored the day meant to commemorate the birth of Christ. It meant family and feasts and beautiful church services. Not this year. Not here in Paris. Wary of the German Zeppelins striking in a moment of distraction, Parisian officials had strongly discouraged large gatherings in brightly lit places on Christmas Eve. Which meant no midnight service; the one thing Marya had hoped to cling to after realizing she would be utterly alone on the night of the Savior’s birth.

Natasha and Pierre had both written her letters filled with profuse apologies. They had been invited to dine with the Bolkonsky siblings, and it would have been most improper for them to bring a wayward guest. Though Marya had sent back an easy dismissal of their concerns, inside she ached.

For months, Marya refused to confront her own lonely existence. But with the prospect of a Christmas spent in the company of nothing but an empty flat stung in a way she could no longer ignore. Once a woman of culture and sophistication, Marya had adored the gossip and conversation of a soirée or an opera. Now, Marya only ever went to a grueling twelve-hour shift at a sweltering factory where the women she worked alongside barely said three words to her. Even her Sunday services held little socializing. As much as she’d have loved rebuilding a circle of friends, or even acquaintances, she had found little success in that endeavor.

Which left Hélène. How utterly sad that Marya’s only source of human interaction came from Elena Kuragina. Two months into their living arrangements and every conversation they deigned to have still ended in catty snipping and petty insults. Not, Marya supposed with a heavy sigh, that either of them minded. On the contrary, those snarling arguments elicited stronger emotions than anything else in Marya’s life. When she and Hélène stood nose to nose, scathing insults flying from their mouths, Marya felt alive.

Every forbidden word, every flung insult sent Marya’s heart racing. Blood rushed to her face, and Hélène without fail made some uninspired quip about her corpselike skin finally matching her hair. Or something to that effect. Now, it almost sounded affectionate. Not that Marya returned such affection, obviously.

She cared not a whit for Hélène Kuragina. Nor whatever she planned to do for Christmas. No doubt she’d been invited to some elegant soirée filled with black market meats and cheeses and unlimited fine wines. A stuffy, vapid affair, to be sure. Nothing Marya wanted any part of. She would just have her own church service right there in the living room. A few candles, her bible, perhaps even a bit of vodka to warm her stomach on a cold winter night. She didn’t need other people to celebrate the birth of Jesus. She didn’t need anyone.

“Still,” she murmured to herself as she switched off the lamp and ambled off to bed. “It would have been nice to be wanted.”

As she laid in bed, staring listlessly into the endless dark, visions of Christmas after Christmas alone and forgotten until she died swam in her mind. Just over five decades had Marya existed on this earth. Two of them with no one to share her bed. Had Marya been young and beautiful, or young and wealthy she might have been able to claw her way back into society with an advantageous marriage. But what man would want a widow in her fifties with no money to her name, and a long-since faded beauty? More to the point, could Marya even withstand the trial that was marriage just for financial security and a chance at companionship?

For twelve long, arduous years, Marya had curtailed her sharp tongue to placate a husband who never asked for a lippy wife. They had not loved each other. Marya dearly doubted they even liked each other. When the man had died – a stupid drunken mistake that had blanketed the family in shame for years – Marya’s only grief had been for the benefit of her four sons who no longer had a father in their life.

In truth, his death had been a relief. It meant no more biting back her tongue, or carrying yet another child with little reprieve, or enduring her wifely duties. She had not needed a man then, and she did not need one now.

It surprised her though, that Hélène had not elected to remarry after her divorce, or even after fleeing to Paris. Much as Marya loathed to admit it, Hélène still did not fail to turn heads with her beauty and vivacious charm. Perhaps not a young woman at thirty-seven, Hélène had not faded like so many others. She still had smooth clear light brown skin, and sparking doe eyes. Her plump, glossy lips could entice anyone if they were foolish enough to fall into their hypnotic spell. And those skimpy clothes she wore did showcase her best assets, no mater how sinful Marya thought they were. Not to mention her perfect bouncy ringlets that remained in place as Marya’s own curls grew limp and dull.

Oh the men of Russia and Paris alike knew not what a godless harlot of a woman she was like Marya did. And even if they caught on to her tricks, it mattered not to them when she was a beautiful face willing to do the unspeakable.

But though Hélène sometimes came home with smudged lipstick and disheveled clothing, and on a handful of scandalous occasions, had even brough a man back to the flat, Marya never heard a peep about a beau. Not that Marya _cared_. Oh no. Perish the thought. She merely took an interest on the off-hand chance Hélène did find herself a man for it might then mean leaving their flat. And even after two months of saving and scrimping, Marya still knew she could not afford such an arrangement without Hélène’s detestable generosity. Oh, how she loathed owing anything to that woman.

One day, she vowed, she would repay every last cent and then Elena Kuragina would have nothing on her. She’d come into money some way, somehow. She’d get that highfalutin office job, or work her way up in the political world, or stumble upon diamonds in the street. Something, _anything,_ to even the score.

Marya had just begun to doze off, the image of Hélène’s shocked expression when Marya slapped down a pile of cash into her dainty uncalloused hands swirling about in her head, when a shrill giggle jolted her awake. Letting out a growl of frustration, Marya rolled onto her side and glared at the closed curtain blocking her view.

In the next room, she could hear Hélène and whatever horrid man she’d invited back home stumbling about, drunk as skunks no doubt. Marya seethed. She hated that woman, and she hated the stupid brutes she brought home. For all they both knew, Hélène might have brought back a crazed murderer who would slaughter them both in their own house. But no, Hélène cared not a whit for their safety. Only for her own sinful satisfaction.

In the dim lighting, Marya could just barely see the hands on her clock. Well after midnight. Far too late to be cavorting about, engaging in unsightly carnal desires. Another shrill giggle pierced the air, and Marya slammed her pillow over her ears in aggravation. She had half a mind to march right out there and haul whatever drunk bastard Hélène had bewitched out the door and back onto the streets where he belonged.

She didn’t. She couldn’t.

The first night Hélène had gone out to some party and brought back an odious man, Marya had unleashed a moral tirade so great, the man had beat a hasty retreat like the coward he was, leaving Hélène to turn on Marya with such ferocity, the redhead had taken a startled step back. She’d expected Hélène to roll her eyes, or laugh Marya off as she so often did. But she hadn’t.

In no uncertain terms, Hélène had stated that she had every right to do as she pleased with whomever she pleased, and if Marya was too much a shrived up old prude that she wanted everyone else to be as miserable and repressed as her, she could start looking for a more suitable living arrangement elsewhere.

“I pay the rent here, Marya. You think your merger share truly contributes enough for you to police my sex life? I think not,” Hélène had said, daring Marya to argue. And, tossing her loose curls over her bare slender shoulder, she’d sauntered off to bed, leaving Marya to gape after her.

After that, Marya had said nothing of the men that came into the flat. But oh, how she hated them. To have to hear the brutish way they took Hélène on the opposite side of the wall disgusted Marya. Her only consolation was that they never lingered. Such encounters remained quick and detached.

This would surely be no different, Marya thought, hearing yet another shriek as two bodies tumbled into Hélène’s spacious bed. He would finish, dress, and be on his way.

Thump, thump, thump. Hélène’s headboard slammed into the wall. The very wall Marya’s bed was pressed against. Thump. A giggle. Thump. A moan. Thump. Flushed with anger and embarrassment, Marya dug her nails into her palms. She emerged from her pillow and stewed in frustration. Nothing could possibly drown out such obscene noises as-

“Oh, Hélène!” A high-pitched girlish voice cried out.

Marya froze. Horror clawed at her throat. She couldn’t breathe. Didn’t dare believe her own ears. Surely not. Surely Hélène had _some_ semblance of morality. Surely…

“Yes! Hélène! Yes!”

Oh dear Jesus, Joseph, and Mary.

Her blue eyes as wide as saucers, Marya sat up, straining to hear through the thin wall. Purely to disprove her worries, obviously. But no, Marya knew Hélène’s voice well. She knew that for all the thumping and grunting, Hélène never did much more than giggle. She did not wail like the wanton hussy Marya knew she was. Which could only mean one thing.

As she listened to Hélène _fornicate_ with _anther woman_ , Marya pressed a hand to her stomach in shock. She could feel something stirring inside her. Disgust, surely. A tight coiling thing that caught at her breath and tightened every muscle in her heated, incensed, body. Of all the godless things Hélène Kuragina engaged in, this one… This was one thing surely Marya had a duty to put a stop to. If not to save Elena from a fiery damnation, then at least to save the girl.

But she didn’t. Frozen, Marya could only sit there, thighs clamped shut as if to protect herself from the sins that permeated the flat. The tension in her stomach spread to her flushed chest, and no amount of water nor vodka could sooth her dry throat.

Horrorstruck, Marya listened to every forbidden noise. Long into the night, Hélène and the mystery woman kept up their abhorrent antics. The girl remained, wailing and moaning without shame. No man had ever lasted so long. No man had ever elicited this deep level of…of…of _disgust_ in Marya.

Prim and proper though she may have been, Marya knew such women existed. Knew that the sinful act of sodomy tainted some men and women forever. But for all Elena’s flaws, all her shameless sexual deviancy, Marya never once thought this possible. Did the rest of the Russian elites know this was what their darling got up to in the dark of night? Surely not. Surely such a revelation would make Hélène an outcast.

Practically shaking with what must have been rage, Marya listened. Until at last, to her blessed relief, the noises died down and silence once more settled in the apartment. Scarcely daring to breathe lest Hélène or the girl hear, Marya laid her head down and tried to put this awful night behind her. But still, the tension remained in the pit of her belly. She ached. To rage, to fling the girl back out onto the street, to force Hélène down onto her knees to pray for forgiveness. Oh, how Marya ached. And sleep eluded her once more.

In the morning, Marya scrambled to dress for church, desperate to leave the flat. Leave Hélène and her awful behavior behind. She felt jittery, off-kilter. The chapel would calm her though, she knew it. There she would find her salvation once more. And she could pray to God for Hélène’s soul.

But standing in the kitchen, wearing a borrowed silk dressing gown and likely nothing else, was a slender woman with a head of strawberry blonde hair. Unnerved at the gall this woman had by not only prancing about in an open robe, but by overstaying her welcome, Marya crossed the room in three hurried strides and fled the flat before the woman could turn and see her.

She did not want to see the woman’s face. She had no desire to know if she would recognize her or not. She never wanted to see her again. Her face burned, and not until safely tucked into her usual pew at the front of the church did the pressure against her chest ease once more. God could protect her here. God would save her from her sins. And from Hélène’s.

Too mortified to stomach facing Hélène, Marya made herself scarce that day, and the next. For the first time since learning she would be forced to work through Christmas Eve, Marya felt relief. Hunched over that factory table, Marya uttered no complaint even as the women around her hemmed and hawed.

With any luck, Marya thought as her shift wound down and she readied to leave, Hélène would already be gone by the time she returned and she would be spared the torment of facing her for just one day more. But without Hélène, Marya knew it meant returning to an empty house, a dinner of tasteless meat and limp vegetables, and half a pot of spilled coffee she hadn’t had the time to clean that morning.

But clearly, luck had long since abandoned Marya Dmitryevna’s side. For when she staggered through the door, exhaustion in her bones, she was met with a raised eyebrow and a sly little smile from the woman lounging on the sofa. Hélène wore a simple housedress and no shoes. Certainly not an outfit appropriate for a fancy Christmas feast.

Averting her eyes, Marya shed her worn coat and eyed the soiled pile of rags still on the kitchen floor where she’d left them.

“You’ll want to scrub that tile well,” Hélène remarked in an airy voice. Like Marya didn’t know that. Like Hélène hadn’t brought the wrath of God upon her with her actions. Like Marya had asked her advice in the first goddamn place.

Unable to muster the civility to answer back, Marya filled a small bucket with soap and water and got down on her knees. Hélène was, she saw with a scowl, right. The liquid had seeped into the floor, and would surely stain. Still scowling, Marya put Hélène from her mind and attacked the linoleum with outraged vigor. She imagined it was that woman. She imagined it was every man that had set foot in their flat. She imagined it was-

“I didn’t think you’d use enough force to crack the damn floor,” Hélène said, standing over Marya with her hand on her hip. She seemed content to watch Marya on her hands and knees, tangled hair tucked into a stained kerchief, soiled skirt bunched up underneath her knees.

“Must you stand there and gawk down at me?” Marya demanded, flinging the dirty rags into the soapy water. A faint stain remained, stubborn, unmoving. “I’m not some servant you need to oversee.”

“Oh don’t I know it? A servant wouldn’t leave a spill like that all day. And am I not allowed to stand in my own kitchen, _ma chérie_?”

“Leave it, Elena,” Marya snapped, standing with a grimace as her knees audibly cracked. She still could not look Hélène in the eye. “You well know I cannot afford to arrive to work late. Speaking of, shouldn’t you be dressing for whatever it is you have planned for tonight? I can’t imagine even you would be so fashionably late to one of those soirées with the rest of Russia.”

With a roll of her brown eyes, Hélène picked up the bucket and dumped it down the drain. “I would think a woman as devout as yourself would have refrained from picking a fight on this holy day, Marya. Really, it’s not proper. Now, go on and freshen up while I start dinner. You smell like factory.”

Too caught off-guard to argue, Marya spun on her heel and stalked off to do just that. It just figured Hélène would find some way to ruin the private night Marya had planned for herself. On this of all nights, one of the most holy and sacred of the year, Marya had to suffer the presence of a sinner like Hélène. Well, fine. Fine. But she’d be damned if she would spend Christmas Even dinner looking like some old, faded crone.

One steaming bath later, Marya pulled out her hair pins and rouge and even the very last of her favorite perfume. She would show Hélène she was not the only woman in this flat who could pretty up. But, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, Marya faltered. Far from prettying up, Marya had instead highlighted every one of her flaws. The loops she’d made in her hair, a poor facsimile of her once-signature hairstyle, hung limp against their pins, and even in the dim bedroom lighting her skin looked disturbingly ghostlike. The bold lipstick only emphasized her colorless, sallow cheeks.

In Russia, Marya had rarely spent time outside in the sun, but months of almost no sunlight on her skin and the barest of rations in her stomach had taken a brutal toll on her body. She saw a smear of grease under her jaw, dark circles under her dull blue eyes, and still more greying hairs among her lank red locks.

“You old fool,” Marya muttered to her pitiful reflection, already yanking at the pins. Hélène would take one look at her and die laughing. She scrubbed the rouge from her cracked lips, and coiled a thick braid at the base of her head. It would have to do.

She emerged from her room to Hélène plating their dinner. Not a feast, not a meal of black market meats and rare cheeses. Just stale bread, mushy vegetables, and poor cuts of tough meats. But two glasses of red wine sat on the table, and Marya stared disbelievingly down at the tiny pot of honey in the very center.

“Where did you get this?” Marya asked, picking up the honey in shock and awe. “Elena, this must have cost a small fortune. What were you possibly thinking?”

“It’s Christmas,” Hélène said with a lazy shrug. “Now eat before I decide not to share.”

Marya ate. With almost guilty reluctance, she spread the barest hint of honey onto her stale roll. She savored each and every bite, allowing the sweet substance to coat her tongue. Raising her gaze warily, Marya opened her mouth to express her gratitude.

Instead, she said, “what are you doing here, Elena?”

“I live here, Marya,” Hélène drawled, as though Marya were stupid. “I know you haven’t forgotten given how you’ve been avoiding me for the past few days. Care to share why, or shall we continue to play this game?”

“That’s not- I haven’t been- Not everything is about you. And that doesn’t answer my question. Why are you here tonight? Shouldn’t you be off with the rest of Russia’s exiled elite, or have they decided you aren’t worth the trouble anymore and recanted any invitation?”

“I see now I shouldn’t have,” Hélène said tersely, dropping her honey sweet drawl. “But I declined no less than three invitations for tonight. Forgive me, but I thought perhaps you would rather not be alone and desolate on Christmas Eve, but clearly I was mistaken, and you enjoy wallowing in misery”

“Why?” Marya demanded, setting down her cutlery with a decisive scoff. “You despise me. A mutual feeling, I assure you. We regularly mock and demean each other. We are barely civil. Why then, why did you stay tonight?”

For a long moment, Hélène did not reply. The picture of ease, she sipped the last of her red wine. Just when Marya thought she would not deign to provide an answer, she said, “you are lonely, _ma chérie_. And I believe you have been for longer than you care to admit.”

“Of all the nerve,” Marya said. It seemed she could not go two minutes without flushing angrily in front of this infuriating woman. “I am _not_ some despondent little twit yearning for companionship, Elena, and I do not need your false pity.”

The words came out in a deep growl, brimming with hostility. Something about Elena Kuragina set Marya’s hackles on edge, and made her want to fight. Acerbic and harsh of words though she may have been, Marya had never once raised a hand to another person. Even her sons, though the Lord knew how mad they drove her. But oh, she dearly wanted to slap the smirk right off Hélène’s face.

With a pout on her soft pink lips, Hélène met her eye, matching Marya’s fire flame for flame. “You are the only person in this world who still insists on calling me Elena.”

“I was not aware,” Marya said stiffly, straightening her aching spine. “We had the sort of relationship that necessitated a more intimate name, dear”

“We share living quarters,” Hélène said with a laugh. “What could be more intimate than that? After all, you are the one I share my meals with. My rations. My life. Do you think just anyone sees me like this, _ma chérie_?” She gestured down at her simple house dress and lack of jewels.

Marya’s lip curled, and before she could stop herself, she said, “I’d imagine half of Paris has seen you in less.”

“Ah. There it is. I was wondering when you might break your scandalized vow of silence on the matter. Well, Marya? What does _le Terrible Dragon_ think of that lovely little thing I had over on Saturday night? I know you were listening. Hope you enjoyed the show.”

“That is _not-_ you- I don’t-” more flustered than she’d ever been in her life, Marya leapt to her feet. Her face burned a deep crimson as such an insulting insinuation.

“Oh, how she blushes, how she blushes,” Hélène said, gleefully rising to her own feet. She seemed to relish in Marya’s discomfort, and had the shameless audacity to bat those impossibly thick lashes at her.

The sensible thing to do would be to leave. To pack her things and run far away from Hélène and her godlessness. Surely Marya would find a way to survive even without this flat. Her own soul and morality far superseded a cheap arrangement. But Marya remained rooted to the spot, transfixed by Hélène’s twinkling gaze and the curve of her smug smile.

“Do you care nothing for your own soul?” Marya managed, her voice brittle and too breathy to be of any true force. “I have known you to be a shameless woman, but this? To go cavorting about with strangers and lure poor young girls back to your bed like some…some _licentious whore_ and damming you both to hell.”

“A licentious whore, am I? Far better that than some sexually repressed prude in need of a proper fucking for once in her lonely miserable life.” Hélène ignored Marya’s outraged shriek and plowed along, delighting in every forbidden word. “Do you imagine me some prowler, luring unsuspecting young virgins to their damnation? I may be a great many things, Marya Dmitryevna, but I am not my fool of a brother. Are you so sheltered that you think these women do not come willingly? I assure you, each person I deem desirable enough to seek pleasure with comes willingly after just one kiss.”

“You never were humble,” Marya said, struggling to maintain some semblance of poise in the face of such shameless behavior. “Anyone with half a mind, and a modicum of common sense would never fall for such cheap little tricks.”

“Anyone, meaning you?” Hélène laughed. A mocking chuckle nevertheless brimming with genuine delight. “Little Miss Marya Dee? Oh so prim and proper. No one suspects how much you _ache_ to be touched. I’d wager if I kissed you right here and now, you would melt as countless others have done before you.”

Quivering with barely-suppressed rage, Marya refused to entertain this nonsense anymore. Curling her lip, she spun on her heel and stormed away. But she barely made it three long strides before Hélène caught her wrist and tugged her back with strength Marya hadn’t known she’d possessed.

Marya gasped, stared, went rigid as Hélène pressed her warm body against the taller woman’s front and dug her hand around Marya’s left hip. The redhead didn’t know what to do. No one had been this close to her in so long. Nothing but the clothes they worse stood between them. And no one but her husband had dared bodily handle her in such a way. It set Marya’s heart racing. Out of rage and shock, surely.

“You fear I’m right about you.” Though Marya stood almost a full head above Hélène, the smaller woman showed no signs of intimidation and merely raised herself up on her toes until they stood nose to nose. “It terrifies you. The thought that you might have some human lust within you after all. Lust for a woman. For me. A licentious whore. How scandalous.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Marya breathed, still rooted to the spot. She could smell Hélène’s perfume. Practically feel her beating heart. Could Hélène feel hers? It raced and ached and practically threatened to leap out of her chest.

“Prove it, then,” Hélène said with childish glee in her eyes. “Let me kiss you and we shall see if _le Terrible Dragon_ can resist my charms.” Marya inhaled deeply, but did not pull away. She should not have been moved by a schoolyard dare and a pair of sultry lips. And yet, she could prove to Hélène her allure had no power or sway here. Not with Marya Dmitryevna.

Lifting her chin in defiance, Marya Dmitryevna met Hélène’s challenging gaze head on. A silly little kiss would do nothing to sway her, Marya knew. No, Hélène may have thought herself Aphrodite come again, but her tactics surely only worked on simpering, lusty-

_Oh._

_Oh no._

Hélène kissed like she held the world’s deliverance on her lips. She kissed as though worshiping at an altar of God. She kissed with passion Marya had never even dared to dream of. She had expected harsh, sloppy wetness, bruising and domineering. She had expected to feel trapped, used, forced. But no. Hélène kissed her, and it felt like walking into the light at last. Lips so soft and ripe, like a freshly fallen petal on a clear crystal stream.

A kiss like this, Marya had never experienced before. Kisses were not mean to be like this. So…so full of longing that only grew, unquenchable and unknown. Kisses were meant to be chaste, dutiful, a means to an end. Kisses should not have ignited flames beneath Marya’s pale skin, flickering and sparking with a heat that threatened to consume her.

Just one kiss, and Marya felt the world slip away. The floor dropped away from her feet. The air dissipated. She knew nothing but the woman who pressed their mortal bodies together and lifted Marya into new realms.

With her lungs, she breathed life into Marya’s being. With her arms, she anchored her to the shores. With her lips, she anointed her with a sacred blend of red wine and lavender and the answers to every prayer Marya had ever uttered. With her unblemished hands, she shattered chains Marya did not know existed.

Without warning, Hélène Kuragina achieved what none in Moscow and Paris alike had dared to do. She took the icy Great and Terrible Dragon of Moscow, and set her alight. And Marya melted. Mewled. Sank into damnation. What did it matter when on the skin of Elena’s lips, she found salvation?

But all too soon, the spell shattered. A wild shout, that of a young boy’s, from the streets below sent Marya’s soul careening back into her body. Like waking from a trance, Marya jolted, stiffened, flung herself backwards and out of Hélène’s anchoring arms. Knees weak, strength wan, Marya turned from her sins and clutched at the back of that faded old sofa with all she had left. She stared ahead with unseeing eyes, and touched her still-tingling lip with calloused fingertips.

Even separated, Marya could still feel the ghost of Hélène’s body against hers. Perhaps she always would. Perhaps nothing would ever separate her from this moment of weakness. This moment of her greatest sin.

She’d been so very wrong. With a single kiss, Hélène had stripped her bare of any armor, any dignity, any semblance of piety. With a single kiss, she left Marya raw and vulnerable. She laid her emotions bare. Tore her full, aching heart from her chest and spilled it across the splintered wooden floor. Nothing would ever be the same.

Her dignity stolen away, Marya let out a choked sob and did not run. Not even when she felt Hélène’s body at her back. Felt her hands dig into her aching shoulders. She stayed, and dared not breathe.

“Hush,” Hélène murmured into her ear. Such a simple, comforting word devoid of any mockery or cruelty. “Hush.” And Marya obeyed. Strong, sure fingers drew soothing circles around Marya’s knotted muscles. Her head lolled back, exposing her throat to a woman she considered an enemy. Or perhaps not an enemy anymore.

Against Marya’s stifling high collar, Hélène pressed the barest hint of a kiss. So fleeting, Marya thought she’d imagined it. But it burned as hot as the kiss from before. And heaven help her, she wanted more.

“Let me take care of you, Masha,” Hélène murmured, slowly turning the taller woman around to face her. With wide blown pupils, Marya looked down at her and yearned. “You need not always be so strong, so stoic. I can make you feel good. No judgment, no quips. Just pleasure like you’ve never felt before. You need this, darling. So, let me take care of you.”

“Hélène,” Marya said, looking at her pleadingly. But what she pled for, she knew not. “We can’t do this. It’s not right.”

“It _is_ , _kotyonok_. It is so very right. All it is is pleasure. And do we not deserve pleasure in this world? Come. Let me show you what I mean.” With such confident tenderness in her eyes, Hélène offered Marya her hand.

And Marya took it. She took it and let herself be led into Hélène’s bedroom. She let Hélène close the door and draw the curtains. She let Hélène gently push her towards the bed.

She did not let Hélène keep the light on.

“I can’t,” Marya said, gripping Hélène’s arm. “Not with it on. I have never- No one has seen me before. I can’t start now.” Before, a lifetime ago, such matters happened in darkness, under heavy quilts and thick nightdresses to stave off the Russian winter. To be seen so naked frightened Marya. Paralyzed her.

Hélène nodded, and switched off the light. Then, with sure fingers that never faltered, she undressed her. Piece by piece, she laid Marya bare. In the darkness, Marya could just make out Hélène’s silhouette and the barest hint of a beautiful face. Her body trembled, and she couldn’t stop it. She felt Hélène’s presence recede, and heard the rustling of skirts and stays, before she was back. And bare.

“Relax,” Hélène soothed, pressing feather-light kisses across Marya’s strong jaw and pale neck. Marya’s answer came in the form of a breathy sigh. She dared not lift her hands to feel the softness of Hélène’s skin in her palms. Instead she only felt the barest brush against the outside of her thighs, the length of her forearms.

The sensation of Hélène’s hot mouth on her neck, along her collarbone, over her shoulders sent Marya squirming without control. Her pulse raced at such a speed she feared her heart would give out then and there, and her breathing came in shallow little pants. A desperate ache coiled tight in her belly. The very same one she’d felt just nights prior. Had the disgust returned? Why then did she crave more? Was this instead something else? Something hedonistic she’d thought beneath her in the past? It must have been.

Hélène took her sweet time kissing Marya senseless until she was nothing but a pliant puddle against the soft duvet. Her lips, her neck, her jaw. But then, she came upon Marya’s breasts. And Marya shied away. Flushed with embarrassment and what must have been lust, Marya crossed her hands over her small bosom. Though she could not see it in the dark, she knew Hélène’s to be full and plump. She knew there would not be meandering lines that betrayed nature’s cruel drooping. Not like Marya’s, where in spite of their diminutive size, they still hung low after nursing four babes and living for over five decades.

“None of that now,” Hélène chided, gently pulling Marya’s arms away. “Let me make you feel good. Don’t you want to feel good?”

“I- what does that have to do with…? I’ve not done this before. I don’t know if-” Hélène cut Marya’s protests off with a gentle kiss to her wrist. And then she lowered her head to Marya’s modest bosom. And Marya surrendered.

With her tongue and fingertips, she touched and teased, caressed and tormented, and Marya could not remain silent. Each stroke along her underbust elicited a throaty gasp. Each purposeful kiss drew a new moan fourth. And when Hélène closed her mouth over Marya’s hardened and aching nipple, the redhead cried out and thrust her chest upwards in a desperate bid for more.

“Sensitive,” Hélène murmured against Marya’s right breast, sending shivers down the taller woman’s spine. "Shall we go lower?” She took Marya’s ragged breath for confirmation, and continued down her long body. But though she moved sedately over the soft swell of Marya’s belly, she did not linger.

Unprepared for what followed, or indeed anything of that night, Marya started when Hélène moved her legs apart and started to lower her head.

“What are you doing?” Marya snapped in alarm, sitting bolt upright. “Surely you can’t mean… No! No. Absolutely not. That’s vile. It’s filthy, Elena. Even for you. No, you can’t mean…”

“It will be pleasure unlike anything you’ve felt before,” Hélène assured her, pressing a kiss to Marya’s quivering lips. “What I did to your lovely little breasts, I can do down there. And it will be exquisite, darling. Not at all vile or filthy.”

Appalled at the very suggestion, Marya recoiled. This had to be some colossal practical joke. As soon as she gave in, Hélène would make a laughingstock out of her. She’d run off and tell the whole of Paris what a deviant Marya Dmitryevna was. In no universe could she mean to do as she said.

Humiliated, Marya curled onto her side. She crossed her arms over her breasts and turned her head away. “This whole thing was foolish. I should never have given in to this weakness.”

“It is not weakness and it is not foolish,” Hélène said. She stroked up and down Marya’s thigh, patient to a fault. “It is merely another road to pleasure. When I take a lover and they use their mouth on me, I climb to unfathomable heights. Please, won’t you let me show you? Don’t you wish for _la petite mort_?”

“The little what? No, I- what on earth are you talking about?” Marya demanded, still unable to face Hélène in the darkness.

“Of course,” Hélène sighed, still stroking Marya’s leg. “You are the epitome of a proper woman, after all. And proper women rarely have any fun. You do not know the heights of pleasure I can bring you. Sex need not be some violent, inconsiderate man thrusting inside until you hurt, Marya. I will not hurt you tonight.”

The hand that ran the length of Marya’s thigh fell back and cupped her rear. Marya gasped, the skin burning at such a simple, intimate, lewd touch. She wanted. Oh, how she wanted. So she turned and settled onto her back once more. And let Hélène spread her legs wide.

When Hélène’s nimble fingers raked through the unruly red hair down below and spread her folds wide, Marya squeezed her eyes shut. She did not know how much Hélène could see in the dark, but she could scarcely recall another time when her womanhood had been so exposed to the open air and never to a lover’s fingers. And more.

“So wet for me,” Hélène murmured, and Marya cringed.

“I’m sorry, I- God, I’m too old for this.” Hélène’s firm hands held her hips in place and Marya could not wriggle away.

“It’s a good thing to be wet like this. It means I am doing something right. It means you are enjoying yourself and ache for more. And I’m happy to provide, _ma chérie._ No one is too old for pleasure.”

The sensation of Hélène’s velvety tongue against her womanhood caught Marya entirely off-guard and she could not stop the throaty moan that tore from her lips. “Oh _dear Jesus_! Yes…” How right Hélène had been. This was not dirty nor vile. It felt divine. A barrage of pleasure that drew the most obscene noises from Marya’s throat. How she’d seethed at that other woman’s absurd little noises. But now she understood. She could not have silenced herself even if she tried.

When she felt Hélène’s tongue begin to probe her entrance, Marya twisted the duvet into her fists to keep herself from floating away. Hélène must have been a serpent, for no human could have such a long, nimble tongue as that, Marya decided when she split her open and plunged inside. It did not matter. Snake or not, Hélène gave her the best pleasure in her life.

So far gone in her own hazy bliss, Marya couldn’t even find it in herself to be scandalized when Hélène declared her taste divine in that smug way of hers. As filthy as it sounded, it only stoked the flames. The tension in Marya’s belly wound tighter and tighter and she soon feared she might snap.

“Hélène, please,” Marya begged, unsure what is was she wanted. Any more pleasurable torment like this and she thought she’d die on the spot. But the thought of Hélène stopping, and leaving her so wound up and desperate terrified her in equal measure. “Please!”

“Normally, I’d take my time with a lady,” Hélène said, and Marya didn’t like the sound of that at all. “But you’ve waited long enough for this. Just let yourself relax and feel. The rest will come naturally.”

Using her fingers, she once more spread Marya’s womanhood wide. But this time when she licked up the length, she lingered on a spot that sent Marya into a tailspin. A scream filled the room, and Marya flailed, trying to find purchase on anything at all.

“Ooh, no one’s touched here before,” Hélène said, sounding delighted. And she immediately ducked down to do just that.

Marya had thought nothing would compare to the feeling of Hélène’s lips and tongue on hers, or on her breasts, or inside her. But when she sucked on that hard little spot at the top of Marya’s womanhood, the redhead could only sob in pleasure. It choked her. Overwhelmed her with unprecedented pleasure. She begged and pled and writhed, and still the coil tightened as she climbed higher and higher to the point of ecstasy.

Then, Hélène sucked just so, flicked her tongue just so, and Marya snapped. She let out a high-pitched cry, octaves above her deep timbre. Her eyes rolled back into her head and there, in the skillful caress of Hélène Kuragina’s tongue, Marya Dmitryevna saw the light.

Wave after wave of pleasure crashed down onto her with no end in sight. In the midst of her body’s frantic convolutions, Hélène remained between her legs with her tongue in the perfect spot.

The entire building had to have heard her, but Marya didn’t have the sense to care. On and on it went, until she could take no more. Her words were barely coherent, and she herself heard none of them, but Hélène understood and eased back. And like a puppet with severed strings, Marya collapsed, limp and exhausted, and fell into a deep slumber before she could say another word.

\-----

Marya Dmitryevna did not want to feel unrelenting, biting disgust at herself. She did not want to hate what they had done. She did not want to wake up mere hours later with shame clawing at her throat. But the world had never cared what Marya wanted or did not. Why ever would it start now?

The unfamiliar presence of another in her bed made her clammy skin crawl. Beside her, dead to the world, Hélène Kuragina slumbered on. One slender, strong arm rested around Marya’s ribcage, anchoring her to the bed. That simple touch burned. Marya could not breathe. The blanket thrown haphazardly on top of them smelled like home.

Her panic mounting, she stumbled from the warm bed. In the darkness, she could not find her clothes, but Marya did not care. She had to get away from that bed. From that woman who had ensnared her with some sinister magic.

Under the flickering light of the bathroom’s bare bulb, Marya stared at her treacherous reflection in the mirror. Marks, those of a wanton hussy’s, dotted her pale skin from her throat to her breasts like beacons of sin. Though tender to the touch, they did not hurt when Marya pressed her thumb into them. So she pressed harder, until the bite of pain eclipsed the memory of the bites of pleasure.

And for the second time, Marya Dmitryevna broke down sobbing in that bathroom. How could she had been so weak as to give into temptation? All her life, she’d done everything expected of her. The husband, the sons, the place in society. Everything she was supposed to do. Over fifty years of devotion to God and all he decreed only for it to come crashing down after one night of selfishness.

Turning on the water as hot as it could be, Marya tried desperately to scrub her sins from her wicked flesh. She scrubbed her skin raw, long after it started to hurt. Penance cared not for pain. Between her thighs, she rid herself of her sticky sin. From her breasts she erased the remnants of a harlot’s tongue. She had to become clean again. She had to be cleansed. And she dared not drop to her knees and beg God for his merciful forgiveness with a body filthy and tainted.

In the mirror, Marya saw the reflection of a woman gone mad with grief and shame. Red, so much red. As if Satan himself stared back. Her hair, her skin, her eyes, her swollen lips. Her shivering body that still carried the tell-tale flush of lingering lust. How could God ever forgive such a wretched creature? On this of all most holy nights, Marya had sullied herself.

Down she sank onto the unforgiving bathroom floor. Her knees and back ached as she prostrated herself for the Lord and prayed ceaselessly for his mercy. Even if he saw fit to punish her for all eternity, Marya would beg nonetheless. This, this pain, this naked shame as she prayed before God with nothing to hide herself and her transgressions, she deserved this.

She did not rise until the light of dawn. On shaky legs, Marya hauled herself up. She dressed herself in her thickest, most modest dress. She shrouded her head in a plain scarf, hid the treacherous marks beneath a high neckline and a suffocating winter coat. And then she left.

Christmas morning greeted her, unaware of what she had done. She walked without purpose. An aimless amble through the streets of Paris. She passed opulent houses filled with pure families who celebrated the holy day with presents and love. She passed closed stores, all employees safe and secure in their homes.

At the steps of the chapel, Marya stopped. She listened to the bells above ringing in exaltation. She intended on going inside. Perhaps a day of fervent prayer at the steps of the altar would do her good. But in the doorway, Marya froze. She dared not enter this holy place. Not with such sin coating her body. Not with a blackened soul. She could not bear to taint this place. And so she turned on her heel and fled from the house of God.

Paris in the winter had nothing on the bitter cold of her beloved homeland, and Marya relished in the biting wind. But eventually hunger pains drove her off the streets and back into the flat she’d damned herself in the night before. She dreaded having to walk through that door and face Hélène.

No one in Moscow had thought Marya Dmitryevna to be a coward. She’d commanded respect and terror in one fell swoop. But nothing, not one act, she’d done since her world had turned upside down in the wake of the revolution could be considered brave. She’d fled to Paris because she feared being alone. She’d swallowed her pride and taken Hélène’s offer of cheep living at the cost of her dignity because the threat of homelessness terrified her. She’d bowed her head to the pressures of society because it was easier than fading away into social oblivion.

The thought of having to look Hélène in the eye after what she’d done paralyzed her. But with immense bravado, Marya unlocked the door with a quiet click and came home.

“There you are,” Hélène said, sounding almost wistful. Marya didn’t look at her. “Marya. Don’t tell me you’re going to just ignore me now, _ma chérie_.”

“Stop calling me that,” Marya demanded, throwing her heavy coat aside. “I am not your anything. Last night should never have happened. I regret my moment of weakness, and would appreciate it if we never spoke of it again.”

“You and your religious guilt,” Hélène said with a roll of her eyes. The pitying look she gave Marya only worsened matters. It was not one of mockery. It was one of true empathy and sincerity. Neither of which Marya had believed Hélène could possess.

“What we did was wrong,” Marya insisted, though her voice wavered. “It was a sin. It was _many_ sins. Don’t you care, Elena? Do you relish in spending an eternity in hell because of a few fleeting moments of… Was it worth it?”

“Yes,” Hélène said, as if the threat of eternal damnation was a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of her lurid life. “But the difference between you and me, dear Marya, is that I do not consider sex, and moreover sex with another beautiful woman, a sin. What could be sinful in something so pleasurable? Why else would God make our bodies capable of something so delicious? Or… Or do you think He made a mistake, Marya?”

Marya made a scandalized noise of disapproval for such blasphemy. No, she did not in fact think God ever made mistakes. Such pleasure was intended to be between a man and his wife, not from a vile man or churlish girl Hélène picked up off the street. But her righteous reasonings only served to amuse Hélène.

“Very well,” Hélène said, turning her back on Marya. As though the redhead wasn’t even important enough to converse with anymore. “Live with your little guilt. But do not tell me I am committing sins of the flesh that shall damn me to hellfire. And even if it does, isn’t it a bit late to give it all up and beg forgiveness to a God who cares so much about my intimate encounters when there is a war going on out there?”

It couldn’t be too late, Marya wanted to argue. It could never be too late with the proper penance and prostration. She had to believe that. She had to believe God would forgive her of her sins, no matter how egregious. If she lost that hope, Marya did not know what she would do.

The intelligent thing to do would have been to leave Hélène and her scandalous lifestyle far behind. Even if it meant living in some dangerous slum. Perhaps such discomfort might even be part of a proper penance. But the thought of leaving… No. No, surely it would be even more impressive to God if Marya remained and had to live alongside her greatest temptation day in and day out without succumbing to the Devil’s whispers. It would prove her resolve. Like Jesus’s trek into the desert.

Never again, Marya vowed. Never again would she let another’s lips caress hers. Never again would she bare herself to another human being in such a lewd, shameful manner. Never again would Marya Dmitryevna display an ounce of weakness.

Never again would she feel so alive.

 _No_. It mattered not what she denied herself, Marya repeated like a mantra. Sins of the flesh meant nothing against an eternity spent inside Heaven’s Gates. No sweet-smelling perfume, no moments of ecstasy, no exquisite human connection could compare. Or tempt her away again.

But it all came crashing down around her. Again. And again. And again. Because the temptation came in the form of Elena Kuragina. A devil reincarnate, surely. Though Marya could not say how, Hélène bewitched her. It bothered and bewildered the older woman to no end. Never before had she felt this way. So strange, so unknown.

Oh, she had looked at other feminine forms in the past, of course. What young girl didn’t? But she’d been but a child then, gangly and boyish. She’d looked in envy and admiration, surely. She had wanted to be those women she’d gazed after. With their beautiful hair and twinkling eyes. It hadn’t been with _lust._ And then in her adulthood, sure, Marya had watched other women. All women looked. It was merely to take stock of the latest fashions, and beauty standards, and…and how tightly one needed to cinch one’s corset. If Marya’s eyes lingered on rising hemline, or particularly obscene décollage, well, it was merely out of distaste. Nothing more. She’d always been convinced of it.

Only now, she didn’t quite know. Now, to her shame, Marya could not stop. She could not stop looking at the beautiful Parisian women she passed on the street. She could not stop her blue eyes from flickering to the strong, skilled women who stood with her on the assembly line. She could not stop falling into Hélène’s arms. And falling farther and farther away from the grace of God.

The second time Marya transgressed, not two weeks had passed since that fateful night. She’d been on the sofa, a basket of mending at her feet. Hélène had gone off to one of her soirées once more, and Marya had not known to pray for her to stay away, or to come back alone and safe. In the end, Hélène had come back.

After a night of imbibing, she’d walked with a sultry sway, only just unsteady enough to be on the right side of endearing. Marya had been transfixed. She might have even forgotten to breathe. Without hesitation, Hélène had dropped herself right into Marya’s lap and kissed her senseless. And Marya had let her. Had melted once more. And she’d put up no resistance when Hélène dragged her into bed and brought her to new heights again. That night, Hélène had used her fingers inside to take Marya as a man might have. Only, in just one night, she’d successfully eclipsed anything Marya had ever experienced in years of marriage, and the redhead had once more fallen asleep sated.

The next morning, Marya had pitched a fit over her upturned mending basket and demanded Hélène clean up her mess. The smug woman had dutifully obliged and spent ten minutes hunting on hands and knees for the loose needle. But she’d done it with a smile on her face. A real smile. Not like those base, cringing smiles Marya had so often seen mar her pretty features. It set Marya’s heart beating something fierce. She wanted to see it again.

Another week went by, another party, and another passionate night wherein Hélène instructed Marya on the art of frottage. The sensations of Hélène’s heated nude body atop hers, Marya’s womanhood frantically thrusting up into a shapely thigh, had nearly done her in. Such a position only brought Marya more mortified guilt for it screamed of lusty desperation and wanton pleasure.

The guilt always returned in the light of day. But quieter. Subdued. An afterthought in the face of delightful pleasure. For a brief spell, Marya justified their nights together as something necessary. Altruistic even. For if Hélène remained in her own bed with Marya to warm it, she would not be trapsing about with who-knows-who, contracting all manner of disease. And if the only woman she sought pleasure with was Marya, she could not go out and corrupt any poor innocent girl who could still be saved.

Of course, this flimsy justification fell to shreds with even the barest hint of examination, but that did not stop Marya from sitting up every Saturday night until Hélène came sauntering through the door and into her lap. Like moth to flame, Marya let herself be lured in time and again. She could not help herself. She could not stop.

For the first time since leaving Moscow behind, Marya felt a spark of happiness. The days felt lighter, the job easier. And little by little, all the color in the world came spilling back into sight. Before, it had been so grey. So washed out and dull. Hélène brought vibrancy to Marya’s life. Now Marya saw the shine in Hélène’s hair clips. She stared transfixed at the boldness of Hélène’s rouge. And she wanted. A foreign feeling inside a body and mind that had only ever tolerated another’s touch.

To her secret mortification, Hélène soon consumed Marya’s every spare thought. In the factory, she could not afford the distraction lest she incinerate herself and every woman around her, but walking the streets, or standing in the kitchen, or lying in bed at night, Marya’s thoughts drifted to the stunning woman in green.

Not only, to her shock, the way Hélène made her body sing. Other details. Little things. Inconsequential nonsense Marya had considered herself above once upon a time. The glow of her skin in the morning sunlight. Her smile, so rare and precious. That mischievous laugh, usually at Marya’s expense, but no longer cruel. Amused, perhaps, when Marya often grew flustered at the slightest flirtation. Or endeared.

It was Hélène who occupied Marya’s thoughts as she strolled down the Rue d’Alésia with a basket of groceries on her arm. Even in the winter, Hélène insisted on parading about with a bare neck. Marya feared she’d catch her death, and that heavy fur coat of hers would only help if she fastened it high enough. Which she never did.

Thinking only of Hélène’s well-being, Marya impulsively purchased a ball of emerald green yarn for more than it was likely worth. Well, she could afford this impromptu splurge, she placated herself. After all, Marya had saved every single franc she’d earned beyond what went to her rent and food. What few luxuries remained in her life came from the very woman she intended to knit a scarf for. A token of gratitude. That was all.

With the silly notion that her gift should be a surprise, Marya spent the better part of the week knitting in secret. Though it had been a great many months since she’d taken up her knitting needles, it came back so seamlessly, she could work by moonlight and nothing else without worry.

That Saturday night, Hélène dolled herself up and sailed away to yet another night of revelry, and Marya stayed at home, finishing the final few stitches. Though far from the prettiest garment she’d ever made, Marya couldn’t help but feel a sense of deep satisfaction with her work. Satisfaction that grew ever distant as the night drew on and still Hélène did not return home.

Though one would never know it given how she went about with her neck exposed for the cold to bite at and all to see, Hélène owned several scarves, each far more fashionable than the practical one Marya had made. She would laugh at such a silly little gift, Marya thought mournfully.

It would be better to forget this entire ridiculous gesture. She could keep the scarf for herself, she supposed. But no, that would never do. Hélène could be callous, and self-absorbed, but she was not an unobservant idiot. She’d notice the green hue, a far cry from Marya’s preferred red, in an instant.

The night wore on, and Marya’s trivial fretting turned to genuine worry. Hélène had not stayed out this late since they’d begun…well, since she had Marya waiting for her. What if something terrible had befallen the other woman. Just because Marya did not think Hélène an unobservant idiot did not mean she might not have fallen prey to some nefarious force. At her core, Hélène was Russian, and could drink anyone in Paris under the table, of that Marya knew for certain. But anyone could take advantage of her state.

What if…what if…what if… each scenario more terrifying than the last. Wringing her hands, Marya paced the length of the flat. She hated this. She hated being left at home to worry over a woman who clearly cared not for what became of her.

At last though, to Marya’s blessed relief, she heard the door’s lock turn. She whirled around, a stern administration on her tongue. But when she took in the state of Hélène, Marya’s criticism died in her throat.

Her rouge, which had been so pristine earlier that evening, was now almost gone, the remnants smeared across her lower face. Her clothing looked hastily reassembled, and her general dishevelment told of a night filled with merriment and lustful pleasure. All of it with some stranger.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Marya muttered. Hélène giggled and stumbled into her arms. Though not heavy, Marya grunted with the effort to support the limp woman who clearly had no intention of doing it herself. “What have you gotten into now?”

“Just some fun,” Hélène slurred. She nuzzled at Marya’s neck and the older woman blushed a deep shade of crimson. But when Hélène began to gracelessly paw at Marya’s waist and hips, she sighed deeply and led her into the washroom.

“You have had too much, Hélène,” Marya scolded. She could smell a woman’s perfume on her skin. It disgusted her. Such a clotting sweet scent. Hélène had far better taste than that which meant she’d taken up with some trollop. What an old fool Marya had been to think Hélène might curtail her hedonistic proclivities outside of the flat. She had the urge to run, then, and bury her burgeoning feelings somewhere where no one could ever find them. 

But Hélène looked so sad all of a sudden that Marya did not have the heart to leave her in such a state. She washed Hélène’s face clean of makeup with a damp cloth, and unpinned her mussed curls. And though she longed to, Marya did not linger. She knew how protective Hélène was of her beautiful hair.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Marya said. What she wanted was to put Hélène in the bath and scrub away that other woman’s essence away. But Hélène looked dead on her feet, and Marya did not dare take advantage of her vulnerable state.

Hélène let Marya help her into the bedroom without complaint, but when Marya tried to pull away so that she could ready for bed, she clung to the taller woman. “Need help.”

“You’re perfectly capable of undressing by yourself.” Marya said with a huff. “I’m sure you’ve had years of practice.”

“Fine.” Hélène pouted and it reminded Marya of a petulant toddler. “Marya. Please? Why don’t you wanna see me naked? Everyone else does.” Startled at Hélène’s question, Marya floundered for an answer. But Hélène was drunk enough that Marya felt confident she would remember none of this in the morning.

Secure in that knowledge, Marya said, “I do want to see you, Elena. You are so beautiful. But you are too drunk tonight for such things. Come. I will help you undress if you promise not to be so difficult about it.”

Mumbling out a promise, Hélène stood limp as a ragdoll and let Marya undo the many buttons and stays of her restrictive clothing. Marya could see several tears she would have to repair in the morning, and that only stoked her ire. The least that other woman could have done was be respectful of Hélène’s clothing. There was a war going on, for Heaven’s sake. People did not have time to mend frivolous tears.

She kept her focus on the clothes themselves. Marya knew enough about her own newfound desires to realize one glance elsewhere would be her undoing. Just the thought of Hélène’s light brown skin and uncovered womanly curves had her trembling.

Mercifully, Marya managed to get Hélène into her nightdress and a clean pair of underthings without too much panic, and she soon tucked her into bed. A tribute to her exhausted state, Hélène did not tease or put up a fuss.

“Good night, my dear,” she murmured. “Sleep well.” Unable to help herself, and safe in the knowledge all would be forgotten come dawn, Marya pressed a chaste kiss to Hélène’s forehead and brushed a few stray locks from her cheek. Then, she went to fill a glass of water to leave by Hélène’s bedside.

\-----

In the morning, Marya did not go to church. Owing to the downpour going on outside, of course. A small lake would have formed on the narrow streets by the time Marya slogged all the way to the chapel. She could easily worship from home.

Warm and cozy in a faded afghan, Marya settled herself in the sitting room with her beloved bible in her lap and rain tapping at the window. Last night’s ire over Hélène’s mystery lover perplexed Marya. In the light of day, she recognized the emotion she’d felt as, to no small horror, jealousy. Envy. Yet another sin to add to her growing repertoire. Though Marya supposed if she were to be honest with herself, one she’d committed many times before.

With a rueful sigh, she raked a hand through her loose hair and set aside her bible. To stave off the frequent headaches that plagued her so relentlessly, Marya had taken to wearing her hair down around her shoulders rather than pinned to her scalp without mercy. It did little to disguise her many years, especially given the amount of grey sprinkled liberally throughout the dark red strands, but it softened her features. Not that she cared one way or another. Only Hélène ever saw, and she never took notice.

The revelation that Hélène had gone off in search of a passionate night elsewhere because Marya did not possess youthful allure did not come as a shocking one. But it still stung. In Moscow, in her fair finery and opulent jewels, Marya had felt secure in her looks. Oh, perhaps she’d not been a devastatingly beautiful woman like Hélène, or anywhere close to young, but she’d recognized a sort of elegant refinement in herself.

She saw none of that in her appearance now. Not in her simple worn clothing, all drab and dull, or her hollow cheeks and pale skin. How much longer before the dragon woman she’d once been disappeared for good? Sometimes, she felt sparks of that old self. Barking directions to new recruits at the factory, her booming voice easily heard about the roar of machinery. Arguing with Hélène over any little thing (though their arguments now held tinges of what Marya dared to believe was affection). How Marya missed the woman she’d been. And how she longed to be the woman Hélène would want.

Now there was a revelation. Absently tapping her fingers against the cover of her bible, Marya tried to summon some of the religious guilt that had plagued her for weeks. But strangely, she only felt a muted sense of worry. Being intimate with Hélène made Marya feel alive again. It made her…content. And in this miserable war-torn world, some things were no longer sins. Maybe they’d never been in the first place.

Gazing out at the dismal rainy day, Marya let her introspective mood carry her through the morning. She even dozed for a bit. And wasn’t that a fun little treat?

Just as Marya suspected, Hélène did not rise from her slumber until mid-afternoon. Nor did she speak until she’d drained a mug of coffee and devoured the meager lunch Marya had fixed them.

“What a doll you were last night,” Hélène said, batting her lashes.

“I couldn’t very well leave you to pass out on the sitting room floor,” Marya groused. “You were certainly out late.”

“Aw, did you wait up for me?” Hélène shot Marya a lazy grin that elicited a most unpleasant fluttering feeling in her chest. “Were you worried, _ma chérie_?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Marya said, waving a hand dismissively. “I wasn’t- That’s not why I- It’s just that you’ve been home early in the past few weeks and I thought you might have gotten hurt.”

“So you _were_ worried. How sweet you are. No one ever worries about little old me.”

“Why did you stay out so late?” Marya demanded, more hostile than she’d intended. The easy grin on Hélène’s face slid away, and she glowered. Marya looked away, chiding herself on her poor tone. She wanted Hélène to smile again. Not this.

“Because I wanted to, Marya. Because I wanted to go out and drink, and dance, and get _fucked_. I have other needs, you know. And just because you won’t touch me, doesn’t mean there aren’t women out there who won’t either.”

The frank way Hélène spoke of her own desires only flustered Marya more. Her words reignited a shame deep inside, but not shame over what she’d done. Shame over what she hadn’t. Each time Hélène had taken Marya to bed, she’d been the active participant while Marya had laid back and experienced all the pleasure. She’d been a selfish lover, much to her own embarrassment. If she was going to live in sin, the least she could have done was reciprocated. Hélène’s distress last night at the thought that Marya didn’t want to see her undressed only made the guilt worse.

“What if I did?” Mayra said before she could stop herself. Hélène’s eyebrows nearly flew off her forehead. “I mean. Surly it would be more convenient and safer. You wouldn’t need to carouse about and possibly get yourself killed or catch some sort of disease.”

She couldn’t look at Hélène. Such discussions should not be happening in the light of day, she thought with a grimace. But they’d already crossed the Rubicon on _that_. And Hélène did not appear to be willing to let the conversation lapse.

“It isn’t good if it’s a transaction, Marya,” Hélène said with a roll of her eyes. “You have to want it for pleasure’s sake, not just to keep me home or whatever it is you’re using to justify what we do to yourself these days.”

“I’m _not-_ ” Marya paused and collected herself. Hélène wanted to fight, but Marya just wanted her to understand. More sedately, she said, “I’ve moved past justifications. That’s not why I offer. I just thought you might want me to reciprocate. But if all you’re going to do is insult me, this conversation need not happen.”

Embarrassed, and irritated at herself for being so damn embarrassed, Marya went at the dishes with brimming frustration. Clearly Hélène wanted nothing to do with her and she’d simply made a fool of herself. Marya didn’t know what she’d been thinking to even suggest such a thing. Even if she did want it.

“I can hear you seething,” Hélène called, having vacated to the sitting room. “Settle down before you give yourself another of those terrible migraines. Will you join me, _ma chérie_?”

Being told to calm down did little to improve Marya’s mood, but she did edge into the sitting as Hélène suggested. Not that she had much of a choice. Their flat had limited lounging areas.

“I didn’t offer because I thought I owed you,” Marya said, staring out at the rain. “I- I wanted to. I understand why you wouldn’t want me to. I know I’m not…” Unwilling to air out all her insecurities, Marya trailed off, hugging her shawl tighter. Not pretty. Not young. Not experienced. Nothing Hélène would look for in another lover.

“You want to make me come?” Hélène asked with an amused chuckle.

“Must you be so vulgar about it?” It seemed Marya was destined to always be red-faced around Hélène Kuragina. “But yes. I- I would.”

“Prove it, then,” Hélène said, and Marya whirled around to face her in shock. Her breath hitched as Hélène spread her legs suggestively and leaned back on the sofa.

“What, _now_?” Marya cleared her throat. Her voice had climbed nearly an octave in shock. “But it’s- Elena, it’s _light_ out. And we’re in the sitting room, for goodness sake. It isn’t proper.”

At Marya’s indignance, Hélène only laughed again and said, “nothing proper about any of this. Not when you’re offering to stick your tongue between my thighs. So, get to it. Unless you’ve changed your mind, of course.” Hélène spread her legs wider and pointed at the floor in front of her.

Eyes as wide as saucers, Marya gathered up her skirts and knelt between Hélène’s spread legs. But then she froze. “I don’t- what should I do?’

“Well first,” Hélène said, stretching out her arm. She grabbed a throw pillow from the other end of the sofa and handed it to Marya. “Put this under your knees. This may take some time and I want you to be comfortable, after all. And then, why don’t you try pulling up my dress? Go on. I’m not shy, darling.”

As fast as she dared, Marya inched up Hélène’s dress. Beneath it, she wore no stockings at all, and Marya could not avoid brushing against soft skin. But just before she could raise Hélène’s dress enough to reveal anything else, Marya looked up, uncertain. The idea of messing up somehow terrified her more than the prospect of success.

“Do you need me to tell you what to do, my sweet?” Embarrassed, Marya nodded and lowered her gaze. The idea of Hélène ordering her about should have rankled her, but Marya found it strangely alluring. Hélène cupped her chin and tilted her head up until Marya met her eye once more. “Don’t be embarrassed. I like telling people what to do. I thought you did too, but perhaps not yet, hm? A little more practice first, I think. Will you take off my panties for me?”

Hélène lifted her hips and Marya drew the fine silk down with trembling hands. She didn’t dare look just yet, but instead settled Hélène’s dress above her waist. She’d done nothing and yet still felt lightheaded with anticipation and desire. She wanted to make Hélène feel good. She wanted to draw the same pleasure out of her as she herself received. But she did not know how.

“You’re going to have to look, Marya. Go on. I promise it’s very pretty.” Tempted to roll her eyes, Marya took a steadying breath. Then, she looked.

“ _Oh_.” It was an involuntary gasp of amazement, but Marya didn’t care. Never before had she been so close to another woman’s womanhood. And never before had she looked. Not even at her own. She’d never even thought about what one might look like. Yet Hélène sat without a care in the world, exposing herself so blithely to inspection. And with Marya mere inches away too.

Thick wiry hair covered most of what was to be seen, but Hélène laughed and spread herself with her own fingers for Marya to look to her heart’s content. Pink lips peaked out from beneath the hair, and Marya saw slickness forming already. She hadn’t even touched Hélène yet.

It struck Marya as absurdly beautiful to stare at. She’d lived for over fifty years and had heard her fair share of euphemisms for a woman’s most intimate parts, and always thought them all laughable. But perhaps there had been some merit to the crude descriptions after all. When Hélène spread herself open, she truly did seem to blossom like a flower.

“Normally I’d want some foreplay to get me all hot and bothered,” Hélène said in a low purr. “But seeing _le terrible dragon_ on her knees for me is quite the arousing sight. When you’re ready, stick out that wicked tongue of yours and lick.”

What could Marya do but nod? And one fortifying breath later, Marya leaned forward and tentatively lapped with the very tip of her tongue. “Oh.” She’d expected to be repulsed by the taste, but she found it surprisingly tolerable. She had no frame of reference to draw from, but Marya imagined this must be a very lovely taste indeed. For a woman’s nether regions, that is.

Mindful Hélène probably expected her to do more than just poke about, Marya plunged her tongue in once more, already frantically wiggling it with no rhythm or fitness whatsoever.

A gentle tug at her hair caused Marya to pull back with a wince, already certain she’d ruined everything. But Hélène looked nothing but patient.

“Start slow, darling,” she said in a low husk. “Take your time with me. We have all day, and I intend to enjoy myself. Just explore a bit and familiarize yourself with the terrain. A woman’s cunt is such a magical place. Get lost in it. Do not worry just yet about _la petite mort_.”

Marya flinched at such profanity, but nodded. Hélène’s hand did not stray from her hair, and in truth, she liked the pressure. Furrowing her brow in concentration, Marya lowered her head once more. She tried to do as Hélène said. She licked and sucked without purpose. Only intending to explore. Such plump folds Hélène had. And such depth and complexity. Marya had never known vaginas to be this fascinating. She laved her tongue over one hole, catching Hélène’s wetness and drawing it into her mouth. How quickly such a tangy, musky taste could become addictive.

“That’s a good girl,” Hélène purred, sending shivers down Marya’s spine. The hand in her hair began to stroke, as though Marya were a cat begging for attention. In a way, she was. “Don’t be afraid to delve farther, darling. And do not be afraid to be a little rough. I like it rough.”

Marya nodded, her mouth still latched onto Hélène’s vulva. She did not quite understand what Hélène meant by “delve further.” Did she mean to go inside? Or did she mean…no, she couldn’t mean that. The one occasion Hélène had gone a bit lower than usual, Marya had nearly had a coronary and they hadn’t broached the barrier since.

“Think back to what I’ve done to you,” Hélène said, sensing Marya’s uncertainty. “I did not just focus on that marvelous cunt of yours. I also nibbled on your plump thighs. Go on, give them a bite, darling.” Hélène ran her free hand over the inside of her left thigh enticingly.

The sight of Hélène above her, bare from the waist down, an attractive flush just barely visible against her brown skin, only stoked the flames inside Marya’s chest. She yearned to please Hélène in any way she could. And the lazy smile Hélène sent her, eyes half-hooded yet focused, only spurred her on.

Marya started with a kiss. Just a peck, really. And then another, deeper, open mouthed. The slightly salty taste coated her taste buds and she couldn’t help but take the plump flesh between her teeth. The urge to bite overwhelmed her, but Marya hesitated. Hélène had nipped at her inner thighs, yes, and Marya had found it strangely stimulating. But she’d never quite bitten down. Even the light pressure she’d used tended to leave marks on Marya’s pale skin, and a genuine bite, well…

Perhaps just a test first, Marya thought. She bit down with just the barest hint of pressure, and chanced a glance up at Hélène through her lashes. The other woman nodded in encouragement and winked to boot.

Unable to stop her lips curving up into an involuntary smile, Marya sank her teeth in, tugged, sucked, and relished in the groan that fell from Hélène’s lips. Then, she released the bruised skin and pressed a kiss to the mark almost as an apology. And because Marya insisted on symmetry in her life, she did the same to the other thigh.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Hélène breathed, sliding closer to the edge of the sofa.

Impatient and suddenly very hungry, Marya pressed her mouth back onto Hélène’s vulva and resumed her earlier exploration. More copious wetness gathered, and she eagerly lapped it up. Much more of this and Marya suspected the taste of Hélène would soon become her favorite flavor. Certainly it tasted more memorable than anything she’d had in months. And Marya wanted to catch every drop on her tongue.

Greedily, she dragged the flat of her tongue from Hélène’s dripping opening up to the very tip of her cleft, just over an enlarged bump. At that simple touch, Hélène threw her head back with a noise that was half moan, half laugh. Her hips rolled at the contact, and Marya licked again, desperate to draw any noise or motion she could.

“Slow down,” Hélène chastised, tugging at Marya’s curls. “That’s a woman’s special little place. Keep that up and I’ll be screaming before long. But I want this to last, sweet girl. Slow down and learn to read my body language. That’s how I know how to make you a quivering mess, you know. I pay attention to those adorable little noises you make. Ooh, you’re a vocal one. I love that in a woman.”

Marya blushed at such heady praise and frank discussion. In truth, Hélène had the uncanny ability to make Marya into an incoherent, delirious mess, and she could never quite remember all the finer details. But she did her best to focus not on her own aching pleasure, but on Hélène’s.

She moved at a snail’s pace, and did her best to catalogue every single noise and quiver she could. Marya learned that sucking on Hélène’s smaller, silkier set of lips that poked out of the larger pair caused the other woman to squirm and laugh. A low throaty chuckle that struck Marya at her core. She discovered quick laps did little more than tickle, and firm strokes had Hélène panting.

“I knew you’d be a natural,” Hélène praised, tightening the grip she held in Marya’s hair. Marya whimpered, the vibrations only improving Hélène’s pleasure. “All you haughty, prim and proper little bitches are secret deviants, aren’t you?”

Marya gasped in shock and outrage, yes, but also a bolt of pleasure. In the years she’d known the other woman, Hélène had used all sorts of amalgams of those words to describe Marya, but never had they excited her so. Never had they sounded like compliments. And what did that say about Marya that she shivered and shook at the slightest degradation?

“That’s it, my sweet girl.” And that too had Marya squirming where she knelt. “So good. Just like that. You can touch my little clit. That’s my special spot right there. Oooh, yes. Don’t be too harsh just yet though. And don’t forget about the rest of my sweet cunt.”

Marya struggled to do as Hélène said, all the bits and pieces of advice swirling around her head. She alternated between lapping at Hélène’s outer folds, and teasing at her entrance. Just once every few seconds did she take Hélène’s clitoris between her lips or beneath her tongue.

“Oh, yes, Masha… Yes. Make me desperate for you. Make me beg. I adore the wait. It makes the ending so much sweeter, doesn’t it?”

Marya had expected Hélène to be selfish when it came to her own pleasure. Always before, she’d thought of Hélène as an impatient, selfish woman hell-bent on instant gratification. But here she lay, spread out and instructing Marya to make her beg. To make it last. And who was Marya to disobey?

She lost track of time there nestled between Hélène’s soft shaking thighs. She lost sense of everything but the woman before her. The taste of her on her tongue. The sound of her in her ears. All her senses were overwhelmed and inundated with Hélène, and she adored every moment of it.

She wanted more. She wanted Hélène to scream for her. She wanted to hear Hélène beg for release. She wanted to give this woman pleasure enough to ruin her for anyone else. But the world seemed hell-bent on ensuring Marya would never succeed in anything for just as Hélène’s breathing grew truly ragged, Marya’s jaw and tongue started to ache. Her efforts to push through did not go unnoticed, mush to her mortification.

But Hélène offered only patient understanding. “Rest, darling.” Her voice still held steady, much to Marya’s disappointment. She wanted her to be incoherent as she often was. Soon. “Use your fingers if you feel you need to. This is your first time licking pussy and you’re not used to such strenuous activity. I don’t mind. Here.”

She took Marya’s hand and drew it to her womanhood where she dragged her middle finger through the copious wetness. “Inside. Slowly. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” Marya breathed, unable to tear her gaze away. She slid inside and met no resistance. “Oh, dear god.” Around her finger, she could feel Hélène’s walls fluttering, pulsating, drawing her deeper. So _this_ was what men so craved about sex. Being inside a woman like this made Marya feel…powerful. And yet so humble. To be gifted this honor could not be dismissed out of hand.

“Wonderful. Oh, your fingers are perfect for this. So long. Christ, I can’t wait until you fuck me on all fours one day.”

Marya let out a choked whimper at the very idea. In a matter of weeks, Hélène had successfully transformed her, a repressed virgin in the sense of pleasure, to a wanton woman who would do anything at all.

“Should I…?” Marya bit at her swollen lip uncertainly, and began to ease her digit in and out at a sedate pace. Each time she reached the absolute depth, Hélène groaned, and the grip on her hair tightened.

“God yes, I- mm, fuck… When you’re ready, go back to your mouth. You can focus on my special little button. I need it, sweet girl.”

With newfound stamina and incentive, Marya withdrew her finger, eliciting a disappointed groan from them both. But her tongue quickly took over, and she began her careful ministrations, delighting in every noise that fell from Hélène’s panting lips. And each second that passed meant a more desperate Hélène.

One particularly eager suction caused Hélène’s thighs to press closed over Marya’s head, trapping her in place, but just as soon as they’d closed, Hélène laughed and forced them open again. “Gotta remember to…there, right there…keep ‘em open,” she said in between delighted moans. “You want to hear me, don’t you?”

Marya nodded frantically, her head bobbing up and down against Hélène’s vulva. “Good. So good. Just- fuck. Just keep doing exactly that. Yes. Yesyesyes.” And though Hélène did keep her legs wide open, she began to thrust her hips into Marya’s mouth with frantic purpose. Remembering how Hélène often pinned her own cantering hips to the mattress, Marya grabbed Hélène’s pelvis in her hands and forced her to lay still.

“ _Oh_ , you clever girl,” Hélène praised, throwing her head back in delight. “Yes! Don’t let me take it. Hold me down just like that. _Fuck!_ ”

Marya shook almost more violently than Hélène, her own desperation nearly eclipsing her purpose. She needed to hear Hélène’s every word. She needed to take in every moan and gasp and commit them to memory. She needed to make Hélène scream.

“Don’t you dare fucking stop,” Hélène ordered, practically crushing Marya’s head against her pelvis. “Jesus fucking Christ! Stiffen your tongue. Yes, just like that. Now lick, you little hussy. _Yes_. Oh, you’re gonna make me- Yes, yes. Don’t- God, I-”

Hélène could no longer form a coherent sentence. Though Marya did not dare look away and lose her focus, she desperately wished she could watch Hélène come undone. How beautiful her face must be in such a moment of sweet release.

Marya’s jaw ached. Her tongue felt like lead in her mouth. But she pressed on out of sheer need. And at long last, Hélène Kuragina came with a long, low moan, her lithe body contorting off the sofa entirely, and very nearly knocking Marya over. Only the redhead’s own strength kept her legs open and hips from cantering too dangerously. But the hand holding her hair in a death grip kept her in place and Marya continued to lick and suck Hélène through her final pleasure.

Just when Marya feared she might expire from lack of air, Hélène’s hand fell away and her body went slack. Panting herself, Marya looked up and nearly passed out after all. Somehow or other, Hélène had discarded her dress and now lay utterly naked. A faint flush colored her entire body, and both brown nipples stood at full attention.

She’d never looked so beautiful. Marya stared, drinking in every single inch of her. She’d never seen such perfection. Her breasts, heavy and full, sat lower on her chest than Marya expected, and she could see faint stretch marks across her wide hips. Not a goddess carved of marble but a real woman with unique features. So very beautiful.

“You never cease to surprise me, Marya Dmitryevna,” Hélène said, at last recovered. She sat up and stretched out her arms with a lazy yawn. And then she fixed Marya in her knowing gaze. “Oh, you poor dear. You ache, don’t you?”

Marya nodded, unable to find her voice. She’d squeezed her thighs shut so tightly, she feared she might have already bruised them. If Hélène didn’t alleviate her of this burning arousal, she feared she might cry.

“Come up here,” Hélène ordered pointing at her lap, but Marya shook her head.

“I- I’m too big,” she protested in a shaking voice. “I don’t want to hurt you. I’m not-”

“Come. Here.” Hélène grasped Marya’s underarms and hoisted her up with shocking strength. Marya always seemed to forget Hélène’s body carried such muscle. She yelped, and found herself straddling Hélène’s naked lap. Taller than the other woman by far, Marya towered over her and instantly tried to hunch down, but Hélène would have none of it.

Never losing that cheeky grin of hers, Hélène reached under Marya’s modest skirts and pressed her hand to the crotch of her soaked underthings. Then, with a sharp tug, she tore them down and clean off Marya’s legs.

“Elena!” Marya cried out with an outraged growl. “I _need_ those.”

“I’ll buy you another pair,” Hélène said with a dismissive scoff. “Real silk. Maybe in burgundy. Just for me to enjoy.”

“Wasteful,” Marya said, trying to sound disapproving, but Hélène sank two fingers into her and turned the critical tut into a shrill cry.

Marya had never been on top before. Fear of crushing Hélène beneath her weight kept her upright, and she braced both hands on the back of the sofa. She threw her head back in pleasure and began to instinctively bounce up and down, sinking Hélène’s fingers deeper with each thrust.

Not until Hélène’s mouth closed over her covered breasts did Marya realize she’d inadvertently thrust her chest into the other woman’s face. And when Hélène’s thumb found her clit, Marya nearly screamed.

It took less than ten seconds and four circles with that skilled thumb for Hélène to have Marya coming in her arms. She shook and screamed into her own palm, and soon collapsed against the other woman, utterly spent.

“You were magnificent, my dear,” Hélène praised, easing Marya onto her back on the sofa. “Just perfection. We’re going to have to wash these cushions though.”

That particular revelation stirred Marya from her hazy stupor and she sat up with a horrified yelp. “Hélène! Oh, God, we’re going to have to burn the whole couch now, aren’t we?” The genuine laugh that came from Hélène’s mouth was nearly worth the indignation of ruining a perfectly good couch. Marya would never be able to sit on it again without blushing.

“I’ll take care of it, _ma chérie_ ,” Hélène promised, pressing a kiss to Marya’s still-wet lips. The redhead gasped, appalled Hélène would do so after…well, after. “Won’t you let me take this dress off you? I want to see you, Masha.”

Marya looked down at the sorry state of her clothing. Twin wet spots stood out against the bodice, her nipples practically piercing through the worn fabric anyway, and there had to be several damp patches on the badly crumpled skirts.

“Not out here,” she said, glancing at the drawn curtain as if someone might be able to see through after all. “And I warn you. I’m not…”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Hélène said, pulling Marya to her feet.

And when Hélène pulled the dress from Marya’s body once safely in her bedroom, baring her to the light of day for the first time, Marya quaked but did not cover herself. When Hélène circled her like a panther stalking her prey, Marya flushed all the way down to her toes, but let her look. And when Hélène nodded approvingly and called her beautiful, Marya covered her face with her hands and cried.

\-----

Days later, Hélène found the scarf.

Ever since their daytime romp, something in their dynamic had shifted. Hélène had always been a flirtatious woman, batting her thick eyelashes and saying things that never failed to make Marya blush. But ever since they’d shared a new level of intimacy, she’d become downright tactile. Any opportunity that presented itself, Hélène took. She draped herself along the length of the sofa, occupying Marya’s lap like a cat begging for attention. She left fleeting touches along Marya’s arms and back whenever she passed by. She even once encircled Marya’s waist in her arms while the taller woman prepared dinner. Of course, when Marya promptly dropped the glass bottle she held, shattering it, Hélène refrained from doing so again.

It was Hélène’s newfound need to touch Marya at all times that uncovered the silly little scarf. Half-asleep, Marya lugged a laundry basket of clean clothing into Hélène’s bedroom to put away. She didn’t see Hélène lying in wait until she felt the sharp pinch on her rump. Letting out a sound that was _definitely not_ a squeak, Marya dropped the basket, spilling clean laundry everywhere.

“Honestly,” Marya huffed, stooping down to clean up the mess. “Must you always do this? I swear, you act like a child sometimes.”

“I couldn’t help myself,” Hélène said, joining Marya in cleaning up the mess she’d caused. “Oh. What’s this then?” She held up the green knitted scarf with a curious quirk of her eyebrow. At Marya’s attempt to snatch it back, she leaned back and held it just out of reach.

“It’s nothing,” Marya insisted, in no mood to play these games. When Hélène refused to relent, Marya rubbed her temples. “Hélène, I’m tired. I just want to be done with this one last chore so I can sleep. It’s just a scarf I made. That’s all.”

“It’s in my color, Masha,” Hélène said, a gentle smile on her face as she wrapped it around her bare neck. “Tell you what. You tell me about this lovely scarf, and I’ll handle this.” Without waiting for Marya to agree, Hélène hoisted the laundry basket up and began putting things away with surprising care.

“I bought the yarn on a whim,” Marya admitted, too exhausted to get up from the floor. “I just saw the color and thought of you. You needn’t pretend to like it. You’ve such fine scarves, and it’s just so plain.”

“No one has ever made me something before,” Hélène said, staring at the scarf with a fond smile. “Thank you, Masha. Now. Off to bed with you. I’ll finish this, I promise.”

Hélène wore that scarf every day. And Marya’s heart ached.

Falling in love with Hélène Kuragina did not happen overnight. Marya didn’t just look over one day and have her affection smack her over the head. Though few knew it, Marya loved wholly and unconditionally. She did not merely dip her toes into the shallow waters. She flung herself into the deep end. It just didn’t happen often. And never like this. Never a romantic sort of love.

She loved Natasha to no end and would move heaven and earth to keep her safe and happy. But Natasha was no longer a child, and had no need of Marya’s protection. She loved Sonya. A quieter love, to be sure, but now no less deep, and she’d gladly do anything for the sweet young woman. She’d loved her sons. Each and every one of them. And every time one perished, by war or disease or senseless duel, it broke her heart.

Loving Hélène felt different. It took time, as with Sonya. Their physical relationship certainly helped that love blossom in Marya’s heart. After all, no one had ever brought her such pleasure and delight. But the way Hélène made Marya’s body sing was only a small part of why she fell.

She fell because Hélène began to only smile when she meant it around Marya. A real smile that lit up her face. Marya just loved the way her eyes scrunched up and the skin around them creased. She soon discovered she’d do just about anything to make Hélène smile just to see it. Even if it meant it happened at the expense of her own dignity.

She fell because Hélène felt safe enough around Marya to walk around without the benefits of paints, powders, corsets, and silks. She fell because Hélène never looked more beautiful than when she wore only a modest white slip and a sleepy grin.

But mostly, Marya fell because of Hélène’s kindness and intelligence, though the other woman made every effort to hide those qualities well. At times, Marya could not understand why Hélène had chosen to instead project this callous, vapid personality to the masses. Other times, she understood all too well. And though Hélène still sometimes insisted on maintaining this façade around Marya, the redhead saw through the cracks.

Little things that hardly mattered to most. The cup of coffee she had ready each morning when Marya emerged from an exhausted slumber. The way she secretly refilled Marya’s supply of scented bathing oil just enough so as not to appear obvious. The little compliments she offhandedly gave when Marya least expected and most needed them. All of it served to draw Marya further in.

Living together ceased being a battleground completely. What few arguments they did have leaned closer to minor disagreements and little domestic spats about leaving dishes in the sink for too long, or affectionate teasing that had Marya very nearly giggling like some blushing little schoolgirl. Oh, they still filled their insults with vim and vigor, but the tinge of affection Marya had suspected Hélène had weeks prior now came through clear as day.

And best of all, _they talked_. About life, and war, and peace, and anything. No pretense, no hiding behind social niceties or affected personalities. In their little flat, they were not the dragon and the queen of society. They were women. Just women in a world so very cruel to them.

“I confess I rather hate those parties,” Hélène revealed one night as she lay her head in Marya’s lap. She’d been reading aloud as Marya knitted a pair of matching mittens to go with her scarf. Just because it was mid-March and would soon be too warm for either did not mean Hélène had to suffer even a few days of chilly winter air on her soft hands.

“Then why go and subject yourself to them?” Marya asked, shocked at such an unexpected admission. Always before, Hélène had been Moscow’s leading social butterfly. She adored seeing and being seen out and about at all the best soirées and operas. She never relinquished a chance to be the prettiest in the room. Even Marya had not been able to deny her allure in the past.

“Oh, I love the social scene,” Hélène said with an airy wave of her hand. “The beautiful clothing, the dancing, the memories of the land of yesterday. But I despite them for lacking what I have always considered the very highlight of those parties of old.”

“The way you describe them, it seems as though the Russian elites have done an excellent job of recreating the old ways.”

“But for the most important feature, _ma chérie_. A certain red dragon with a wicked tongue and unmatched elegance.” Marya nearly dropped her needles, blushing hotly. She grumbled and blustered about Hélène being a terrible flirt, but the wide-eyed sincerity of her expression could not be denied.

“My days of elegance may be long since over, but I still have a sharp tongue and you receive enough of that on a daily basis. I’m sure my presence at those parties is not missed. And if it is, they can certainly afford to hire a court jester to go about insulting people for their amusement as a fair substitute.”

Hélène sat up, fixing Marya with an unreadable expression. “Surely that is not how you saw your presence. Such a replacement would be a poor one indeed."

“There is no need to shower me with false platitudes,” Marya said, resuming her stitches. “I have always been well-aware of my purpose at such events, and the instability of my place in society. I served as free entertainment and little more. You’ve seen how soon the favor turned when Moscow fell, and the invitations ceased. And don’t try to claim you ever invited me for any other reason than that.”

Marya did not expect Hélène to have the good grace to look genuinely ashamed and regretful. It bothered her, and she tried to wave off the conversation. “Never mind. It’s in the past now, and I’m perfectly happy with where I have ended up in life.”

“Yes, aren’t they due to promote you soon at your job?” Hélène asked, relaxing back onto Marya’s lap. Marya could tell she wished to press the issue, but a lifetime of social graces instinctually kicked in instead.

“They will not choose me,” Marya said with matter-of-fact certainty. “I am a Russian immigrant. A refugee, even. What Frenchwoman would willingly follow the orders of a woman like me?”

“You are the best one for the job,” Hélène insisted. “I know you, Masha darling. For all you have lost, you still commandeer respect and authority. The young workers all listen and look up to you, do they not? And you are far more competent than any other in all the factories of Paris. They cannot deny you.”

As kind and supportive as Hélène’s words were, Marya refused to even entertain the notion for she knew it would only lead to disappointment and a bitter sense of failure. And yet, Hélène’s confidence in her planted the seed. And there it stayed. And each morning, Hélène nurtured it until it took root so deeply, Marya could do nothing to banish it.

As dangerous and grueling as Marya’s job was, she could not deny it gave her a sense of accomplishment and purpose nothing else in her life ever had. She could scarcely remember what she’d done to occupy her days before. At the factory, Marya made something. She had not the learning nor the mindset for codework, or the bedside manner for nursing, but she had the strength and dexterity to build, and the mouth to bark orders.

And she wanted more. She wanted that managerial position and its modest pay raise. She wanted to regain her lost status in whatever way she could. She wanted to make Hélène proud most of all.

So, when the factory’s head foreman, a burly middle-aged man with a robust moustache and balding head, called her into his office, Marya hoped.

“Dmitryevna,” he said in a gruff voice. He was the only one among the factory’s management who pronounced her name properly. Well, as properly as a Frenchman could. “You’ve done good work these past few months. I admit I’m impressed. Most of the foreigners never catch on to the lingo like you have. What say you about taking on a more administrative position?”

“I would be pleased to do so, sir,” Marya said, projecting nothing but calmness, but inside she squealed and leapt for joy. “What would my new position entail though?”

“You got a mouth on you,” the foreman said, not unkindly. “You make people listen. We need that in a manager. You’ll be keeping the girls in section 7C on their toes. Means less time hunched over a table, more time making sure the girls are doing their jobs. It’s a lot of responsibility. They fuck up, it’s on you. Understand?”

“Yes, sir. You’ll find most people scared to earn my ire.”

“Don’t I believe it, Dmitryevna.” The foreman laughed jovially, his belly shaking. “The girls respect you, what with you being…uh…mature and all. No offense. But they look up to you. Keep ‘em in line and you’ll go far so long as this war keeps us in business.”

“Consider that done. Now.” Marya leaned forward. “What about my pay raise?”

Had she been younger, Marya would have skipped all the way home. A major promotion and double the pay. As it was, she dashed up the apartment steps, unwilling to wait for the slow-moving elevator to crawl up to her floor, and burst through the front door with a giddy smile.

Hélène stood in front of the oven, a frilly apron protecting her lovely dress from any unseemly stains. Acting on impulse, Marya picked her up and spun her around with ease. Hélène laughed, a delighted magical noise Marya adored.

“Am I to assume I’m being held by the newest manager of the factory?” She asked, hooking her arms around Marya’s neck and pulling her in for a kiss. At Marya’s excited nod, she said, “then we must celebrate, _ma chérie._ But not tonight. Tomorrow night I shall prepare you something special.”

“Don’t you have a party tomorrow,” Marya asked, setting Hélène down on solid ground once more. “I can wait until the next night.”

“Nonsense.” And that was that.

The next morning, Marya went to church and remained out all day at Hélène’s behest. Uncertain what to expect, Marya remained in a state of minor anxiety for a great many hours. Though she knew Hélène meant well, she did so detest surprises and not knowing what to expect. Not one surprise in her life had ended well thus far – recent job promotion excluded.

Oh, she knew Hélène would ultimately come up with something fine enough. A small dinner and some fancy wine perhaps. Nothing that could end in disaster or the kidnapping of her goddaughter. But Marya still fretted all through the morning service.

By the time she returned home by late afternoon, she’d sufficiently worked herself up into a tizzy. But Hélène greeted her at the door with a kiss and a glass of red wine. From inside, Marya heard the tinny sounds of a classical string orchestra.

“Oh Hélène,” Marya breathed, taking in all she had done with wide misty eyes. A bouquet of fresh red roses stood tall and proud in a crystal vase between two heaping bowls that smelled heavenly. More than their rations ever could have produced. “Did you make this?”

“Mm-hm,” Hélène said, pulling out Marya’s chair for her. “A little something from the homeland. With only the finest choice cut beef.” With a cheeky grin, she spooned up a bite and held the borscht up to Marya’s mouth.

It tasted of home. Unashamed, Marya wiped away a few stray tears. She imagined Hélène pouring over a hot stove all day, tasting and refining until she got everything just right.

“I had grand plans of whipping up a five-course feast,” Hélène admitted with a lazy shrug. “Lord knows we need all the nutrients we can get. But needs must. I hope this is alright, _ma chérie_.”

“It’s perfect.” And it was. Marya practically licked her bowl clean and even went back for a second helping. The massive pot on the stove would last them most of the week. But even if it had been the most disgusting thing Marya had put into her mouth, she’d have delighted in it all because Hélène put such effort into it.

As she ate, Hélène hummed along to the orchestra, and it had to be about the prettiest sound Marya had ever heard. She had that jazzy sort of growl to her voice that Marya found entirely too attractive.

“Thank you,” Marya said, struggling to convey the full depth of her gratitude with only two simple words. “And the flowers are beautiful. I have not received a bouquet in decades. Truly, I cannot thank you enough for this. It is perfect.”

“We’re not done yet,” Hélène said, clearing their plates. “Dance with me?” It was then Marya noticed the sofa had been pushed aside, clearing just enough room to indulge in just a little more flight of fancy for the night.

“I hope you know I plan to lead,” Marya said, taking Hélène into her arms. The smaller woman nodded and dutifully fell into step. And though the liveliness of their dance hardly fit the leisurely tempo of the orchestra, they didn’t care.

When Marya spun Hélène around, she laughed with childlike glee. And Marya yearned for a lifetime of these small joys. Such a selfish want, she knew. Hélène would never be content to stay cloistered away from the glamor of society, especially not for Marya. It didn’t stop her from dreaming.

On a whim, she pulled Hélène flush against her and just swayed. The smaller woman tucked her face into the crook of Marya’s neck and sank into her embrace. They fit perfectly, Marya realized. Like two pieces always meant to slot together. Such a foolish romantic thought. But it warmed her chest and set her heart racing.

“I have one more surprise for you,” Hélène said when the orchestra wound down at last. “I’m afraid it isn’t nearly as impressive as the rest. Wait here.”

When she slipped away into the bedroom, Marya’s arms immediately felt empty, and her body where Hélène had fit so perfectly against, grew cold. Feeling foolish just standing there in the middle of the room, Marya retreated to the sofa and slipped off her shoes. She didn’t know how a night like this could possibly improve.

Then Hélène emerged with a package wrapped in brown paper and tied up with a red satin ribbon. Entirely pleased with herself, Hélène plopped the package right into Marya’s waiting lap and sat down next to her. She did not so much as leave an inch of space between them.

“The ribbon is for your beautiful hair, _ma chérie_ ,” Hélène said, curling a loose strand around her finger.

“I am too old for ribbons in my hair like a little girl, Elena,” Marya said with a roll of her eyes.

“Nonsense.” And not waiting for Marya to untie the ribbon, she deftly undid the knot and began to unpin Marya’s braid. “You open that. I shall show you just how pretty you’ll be.” Hélène well knew Marya could scarcely focus on anything when having her hair played with.

Nevertheless, she made a valiant effort and unwrapped the brown paper, taking care not to tear it. They would be able to find a good many uses for it.

“Oh. Elena. This is…it’s beautiful but surely too much. You shouldn’t have.” Inside the paper was yards of beautiful red pattered fabric, finer than anything she owned. This too reminded Marya of a life long gone and she blinked away tears. “This must have cost you dearly. I couldn’t possibly accept it.”

“You can and you shall,” Hélène said, separating Marya’s hair in half. “Do not worry yourself about the cost. I like spoiling you sometimes. And after your wonderful promotion, you deserve something nice. A new dress to show off. I only regret I could not sew it for you myself.”

Hélène could hold her own with a needle when it came to light mending or simple embroidery, but sewing anything more complicated than the lining of a handkerchief sat far beyond her abilities. On the other hand, Marya, who had not grown up ostentatiously wealthy, had learned enough to manage a dress just fine.

“I wouldn’t even have a place to wear it,” Marya sniffed, but she was smiling. “Honestly, Hélène, I-” Whatever token protest Marya had planned to form disappeared from her head when Hélène tugged at her scalp. She whimpered, her eyes fluttering shut.

“You’re not such a dragon after all, are you?” Hélène teased, tugging at the plait in her hand. “No, you’re just a sweet little kitten. There you go.” Marya had to bite her own lip to stop the purr that would have otherwise escaped them, thereby handily proving Hélène’s point.

Hélène had plaited Marya’s hair into two thick braids on either side of her head like a young schoolgirl, and used the ends of the fine ribbon to tie them off. Catching a glimpse of herself in the windowpane, Marya blushed and rolled her eyes.

“I look ridiculous. I told you, I’m too old for ribbons.” At Hélène’s pout, Marya heaved a dramatic sigh and gave in. “But I suppose I can humor you. Even if I do look like an overgrown little girl.”

“I’d have sat behind you in school and tugged your braids all day,” Hélène said, doing just that. “Now, I have one final celebration for you. Something that requires quite a bit less clothing”

“I look forward to it,” Marya murmured, pulling Hélène in for a searing kiss. Then, “I love you.” And they both froze.

Marya held her breath. She expected Hélène to laugh it off as Marya only falling in love with the first and only person to fuck her properly. To turn it in to some colossal joke she’d tease Marya about for weeks, but never take seriously. She expected Hélène to bat her eyelashes and let Marya’s words only inflate her ego further.

She didn’t anticipate Hélène fixing her with an unreadable expression only to then ignore it completely. She stood and pulled Marya into the bedroom by her braids and wasted no time in tearing her clothes away.

That night, Hélène fucked Marya so deeply and thoroughly, that the redhead barely had the energy to lift her head. All attempts early on to return Hélène’s vigorous enthusiasm was met with a polite rebuff. This night, Hélène had said, was all about Marya and to just lie back and enjoy herself. So Marya did. Again, and again, and again.

\-----

It took an entire week for Marya to realize something had gone horribly wrong. A new weight on her shoulders, Marya got swept up in her factory responsibilities. Though being manager meant a relief on her aching back and neck, it also meant a looming dread followed Marya up and down the aisles. At any moment, one of her girls could be hurt or cause irreparable damage. At least once a day, someone somewhere left in tears and one less body part than they’d entered with.

She prayed for the safety of her girls every night, and watched them like a hawk. The whispers began. The girls might have respected her, but they did not like her. Story of Marya’s life really, and she did not let it bother her. If sacrificing the chance to be the most popular woman in the factory meant ensuring their safety, Marya would gladly oblige.

But so caught up in her new responsibilities, Marya couldn’t see the obvious. She came home each night and chattered on and on about her day and didn’t notice how Hélène just nodded and listened, occasionally interjecting a quiet comment of her own.

Hélène, who adored the sound of her own voice – and Marya could understand the sentiment – and constantly complained about the men she worked under (“honestly, Marya. You know how I adore being admired and looked at, but that does not give any of those brutes the right to touch”) didn’t say a word. And Marya just carried right on.

It all came to a head the next Saturday night. As usual, Hélène dolled her herself up and prepared to head out. Marya, now comfortable enough to leave the curtain slightly open as she soaked in the tub, watched her paint and powder herself with a fond smile. Hélène did not glance her way once.

“I may be out too late tonight,” Hélène said, closing her lipstick with a snap. “To make up for my absence last week, I fear everyone shall be too reluctant to let me go. You should not trouble yourself by waiting up tonight, _ma chérie_. After all, you’ve had such an exciting week.”

“If you insist,” Marya said mildly, having no intention of doing that at all. She’d toss and turn all night without knowing if Hélène was safe or not. No, she’d never be able to sleep.

So, instead she sat up, working on her new dress. The richness of the fabric meant she had to measure and remeasure half a dozen times over before she felt confident enough to take her scissors to it. Measuring oneself always did come with a host of complications, but Marya had just been so preoccupied all week she hadn’t had a chance to ask Hélène to help so she made do to the best of her abilities.

The night grew later and later, and Mayra’s eyes began to sting from exhaustion and strain. She put aside her project and stretched out on the sofa, waiting for Hélène to return to her.

Hours later, Hélène came back drunker than Marya had ever seen her before. It was a miracle she’d even made it back at all in her state.

“Oh, darling,” Marya murmured, helping her into the bathroom. “What have you gotten into now?” She could smell unfamiliar perfume mixed with the clotting scent of booze, and it tugged at her heart, but she soldiered on.

This time, getting Hélène adequately cleaned up and into bed proved to be the challenge of the century. The other woman whined and wheedled, and squirmed like a petulant toddler.

“Stop that,” Marya scolded when Hélène refused to get out of the tub. Unable to stand the stink of another woman’s perfume on her, Marya had chanced a bath this time, and succeeded in soaking the floor and herself. “For Christ’s sake, Elena!” She’d not seen a more pathetic sight in some time, but her affection for the drunk woman won out and Marya hoisted her out of the tub with a pained grunt.

Half an hour later, to Marya’s relief, Hélène slumbered on, oblivious to the mess she’d left in her wake. Rubbing exhaustion from her eyes, Marya picked up Hélène’s sodden clothing and deposited them along with her own into the laundry basket, dried the soaked bathroom floor before it leaked down into the flat below, climbed into her own lonely bed, and then cried herself to sleep.

She left early the next morning, unable to face Hélène. At the altar of the church, Marya prayed for comfort and guidance. Weeks ago, she might have begged God to take these sinful deviant feelings away. No longer. Marya understood all too well such a request would be impossible. She loved Hélène with every fiber of her being, and surly God understood. A love so strong, so pure, had to be a blessing.

Now, Marya could no more stop loving Hélène than she could stop breathing or eating. She wanted so much. She wanted more than fair to ask. Quiet nights spent waxing poetry and contemplating the universe together. Early mornings lazing about in bed wrapped in each other’s arms. The knowledge that Hélène would go out into the world and dazzle the masses at those soirées, but always come home to Marya and no one else.

“God, give me strength,” Marya prayed. “To be content with what I have. Guide me to acceptance of what cannot be. Help me ease this heartache. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

She heard a rustle of skirts and the creak of the wooden pew as a figure took a seat at her right. Marya bit back a rude remark. This was a house of God, and such impoliteness would not be proper. But surely in this expansive chapel, they might find somewhere else to-

“I knew I would find you here.” Marya looked up in shock. Not once had Hélène shown any interest in joining Marya for Sunday morning worship. But there she was, real as anything.

“It is still early,” Marya said in a low voice, glancing around lest anyone overhear. “I thought perhaps you would be…resting.”

“Hungover, you mean,” Hélène supplied. “I woke up and you weren’t there. I came to find you.” She gave a light shrug, like those words didn’t mean the world. “I have not set foot in a church since I was a child, you know. It may shock you, but that does not mean I do not pray sometimes. Or believe in God.”

“Why did you stop?” Marya asked, not daring to disturb this strange moment they seemed to have stumbled into. The last thing she wanted was to scare Hélène into silence or say the wrong thing. Again. “There can be such comfort in these chapel walls. It is…it’s safe here.”

“For you, yes,” Hélène said, running her gloved hand along the pew in front of her. “Not for me. I was so angry at God when I lost my mother. I wondered how he could possibly be cruel enough to take her away and leave me alone. Well, you know what my father is like. He had two sons and no need of a daughter. I hated him. And I never went to church again.”

“We don’t need to stay,” Marya said, taking Hélène’s hand in hers. “Let’s go home, Elena.” Hélène nodded, looking relieved.

And she didn’t pull her hand away the entire walk home.

“Could we possibly talk about some things?” Marya asked, worrying at her bottom lip. At Hélène’s wary look, Marya tried to minimize her fears. “I won’t take long. I just- I said something last week I think may have upset you. Please, will you let me explain?”

With a reluctant nod, Hélène settled on the sofa. She sat with uncharacteristic stiffness, and Marya wilted. She wondered if perhaps she should just allow it to pass, if only so Hélène did not look at her like that again. But no, Marya needed to speak.

“Last week, I said something I hadn’t meant to voice aloud. I said that I love you. And I do. I don’t say that to make you uncomfortable or to pressure you into returning the sentiment. I know you don’t. And I know why you wouldn’t want me to say such a thing. I am old. I’m not beautiful anymore. I’m not wealthy. I can offer you nothing but my love and I know that may seem like a poor substitute, but…”

Struggling to find words, Marya wrung her hands in despair. Hélène had yet to give her any indication of her own feelings and she feared the worst.

“There are such thing I want. Things you showed me could be possible and right. And I will be forever grateful to you. I want too much, and I know I cannot ask you for such things. But I- I want so desperately now. All my life I never dared to yearn for more than what I had. And suddenly I want quiet nights in, listening to string quartets with you in my lap. I want to go to sleep each night with you in my arms and wake up like that too. I want to love you freely and wholly without shame.

“And… there are other things too. Things I cannot ask of you. Please. Just…just let me love you. I won’t ask for your love in return. Not ever. I promise. I understand why you wouldn’t as I’ve already said. And I won’t ask you to only ever be with me. I know that is unfair and you have needs and desires I cannot hope to fulfill by myself. I am not skilled or experienced in such matters. But I can learn! I promise I can.”

Seized by a desperation she’d never felt before, Marya fell to her knees at Hélène’s feet and grasped her hands with a pleading expression.

“Please, Elena. I love you. I love everything about you, and I no longer know what to do with myself without you. And I will be happy with whatever you give back, even if it is only a speck of what I feel for you. Even if it is nothing, so long as you let me give to you. Only, I am full to bursting with it, and I cannot bear to contain it any longer. It must have somewhere to land. You are all I have left to give to. And I know I am not desirable. I am old and ornery and too controlling. I have a terrible temper and lash out in anger when I should not. But I promise I can be better. I can be someone right for you. Please, I beg of you to let me love you. Please. Please. I must-”

“Marya!” Hélène said at last, jerking her hands away. Marya crumpled. “For God’s sake, woman. Get up off the floor. You cannot say such things and expect us to live as we do. Do not- Have you no dignity left?”

“No,” Marya replied, burying her face in her hands in despair. “Not when it comes to you. For you, I would do anything. But please, I beg you. I did not mean- I can contain it. I can, I promise! I will. I do not wish to smother you, or stifle you with my feelings and… Oh. God. Exactly as I am doing now. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll- I shan’t mention it ever again. I’m sorry, I-”

Marya lurched to her feet, unsteady and feeling panic clawing at her chest. She’d only made things so much worse. She should never have opened her big mouth. Hélène would surely want her gone now. And Marya did not know if she could bear being turned out. But how could she stay if Hélène did not feel comfortable in her own house?

“Marya.” Hélène caught Marya’s wrist and tugged her back onto the sofa. Ashamed, Marya covered her face. She did not know if pity or disgust would be worse. With a heavy sigh, Hélène gently tugged Marya’s hand away and forced her to face her. “Breathe. It will be okay. Just take a deep breath for me.”

And that was all they did for nearly quarter of an hour. Just breathed until Marya felt clear-headed once more, though no less mortified at her outburst.

“God, I’m so ashamed at myself,” Marya said, wiping her eyes. “Carrying on and blubbering like a fool. What you must think of me.”

“I think you very brave, Masha,” Hélène said, caressing her red and ruddy cheeks. “But… But I fear you do not understand what you say. I am not a woman to be loved.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It is the truth,” Hélène snapped, growing angry. Marya recoiled, uncertain. She watched as Hélène paced the floor like a caged panther. “Look at my life, Marya. No one has ever deemed me worthy of love for very long. And those few who have, look what became of them. My mother died, my fool of a brother nearly kidnapped an innocent girl – your goddaughter! – and got his skull smashed in by my dear ex-husband. I care for you, Marya. More than I thought possible. And I don’t want you hurt because of me.”

“I’ve survived it before,” Marya said, reaching out but not daring to touch. “And I find you very worthy of love. You need not disparage yourself so.”

“As you do all the time?” Hélène stopped, turning to fully face her. She fixed the taller woman with a stern glare, hand cocked on her hip. “Marya, you spent half your declaration of love doing just that. You think yourself too old, and undesirable, and a whole host of other terrible things. You are not too old or undesirable. Not for me. You can surely understand how attractive a mature and refined woman such as yourself can be. And you may be ornery and bossy and in possession of a wicked temper, but none of that deters me.”

“It should. When I shout, when I lose my temper, I say such awful things. Especially to people I love. It isn’t right. It is inexcusable behavior and yet I never learn. Especially to you after everything that has happened.”

Rather than immediately dissuade Marya otherwise, Hélène pondered for a moment, then sat back down on the sofa, though a safe distance away. “You are right. It isn’t excusable. And that isn’t what I’m doing. But unlike my father, and unlike Pierre, when you rant and rave and we argue, I never feel afraid. I know you won’t ever raise a hand to me. It doesn’t fully excuse things, but there are times when I quite like how you angry you get. There are times I’ve riled you up purposefully because seeing your passion is stirring. I like having control, but I also like having someone to rely on to know what must be done.”

“So…why won’t…If I’m not _not_ undesirable… And if I do not believe you unlovable, or believe loving you to be a certain demise, then, will you let me love you? You don’t have to. But…if you did…”

“I cannot promise you I won’t try to run,” Hélène said honestly. “I can’t promise I won’t drink half a bar and fall into bed with a stranger when the prospect of being loved scares me again. And I can’t promise I’ll ever return your love in the same way. You deserve better.”

“There is no better. Of that I am certain. And that all sounds just fine to me. I know you, Elena. And I know what I’ve fallen for. And that’s okay. I can wait. And be here when you come home.”

And Marya tried not to dwell on how uncertain Hélène looked. She would take whatever victory she could get. Even if it meant heartache along the way. With women like herself and Hélène Kuragina, Marya Dmitryevna expected nothing different.

\-----

Even with Hélène’s tentative permission, Marya did everything she could to hold back the true extent of her all-consuming affection lest she stifle Hélène with the force of her love. She knitted Hélène dozens of accessories and only ended up giving her half. The rest, Marya tucked deep in her dresser drawers and underneath her bed. Perhaps one day when Marya no longer feared being too overbearing, she would give Hélène the rest of them.

Once a week, Marya stopped at a flower stand on the way back from work and bought Hélène a single stem, always in different bloom. With the substantial increase in her weekly paycheck, she’d have gladly bought Hélène a dozen flowers every day, but feared being seen as too much.

The days she cooked, Marya set aside the choicest cuts of meat and freshest vegetables for Hélène, and did so with a smile. She’d missed this. Having someone to care for. Someone to love and put before herself and cherish more than life itself. Had she even known where to go, and had she not been a stickler for rules, Marya might have even braved black market dealers to procure luxury foods like sugar and chocolates. Perhaps one day when the war ended.

She never once took the initiative in asking to spend the night in Hélène’s bed. It was, after all, her private room and she was entitled her own space. But on the nights Hélène quirked her brow and cocked her head just so, Marya’s heart sang. They didn’t always have sex. In fact, Marya insisted they restrict such strenuous activities to the weekend when she did not have to work the next day. To her relief, Hélène didn’t seem to mind spending one or two nights a week just sleeping together.

Whether Hélène decided to spoon her smaller body around Marya, or vice versa, Marya cared not. She craved any contact at all. This, at least, she did not shy away from for she knew how Hélène adored touching and being touched.

And for months, Marya simply carried on loving but as though through a filter of sorts. And always with a nagging fear. Just as Hélène feared hurting Marya through some divine curse, Marya feared Hélène would grow tired of her and leave. Or something terrible might befall them, leaving Marya alone just as she’d been alone after the deaths of her husband and sons.

It hurt. It always hurt. Marya had never known a love free from pain. But Hélène made the ache worth it. Marya would gladly suffer unimaginable torment if it meant being allowed even a taste of a life by Hélène’s side. Masochism had never looked so appealing.

Spring passed in a whirlwind of cherry blossom petals and ripening fruits. The warming weather meant a change in Hélène. One for the better. The Earth came back to life, and so too did she. Her delight at picnics in the park and long walks well into the evening without the weight of a fur cloak only grew as time wore on.

A Russian woman at heart, Marya could not say she shared Hélène’s complete adoration of the warming months. She yearned for the biting cold of a Moscow winter, and the delight of curling up by a crackling fire. But Hélène’s excitement was infectious, and Marya let go of her nostalgia without regret.

Soon, she knew, summer would overtake the pleasant spring air. Soon the factory would be a vat of sweltering misery, and workers would grow careless in their restless desire to escape. Summer would mean youthful foolishness, and giddy revelry, and…and Hélène in light summer dresses and bare legs and lazy smiles.

Marya supposed she could come to enjoy the warm months if it meant eliciting such joy from the other woman. And she did look so very beautiful with the sun on her skin and wind in her hair. Safe in the protective shade of the park’s trees, Marya was content to just admire from afar as Hélène soaked in the cinnamon stick rays of sunlight during her beloved picnic each week.

“Won’t you join me, Marya?” Hélène asked every time without fail. And every time without fail, Marya demurred.

“I know red is my color, but I do not have any wish to burn myself to a crisp.”

What a shame, Hélène always lamented, sprawling out on Marya’s knitted blanket. Oh, how she loved the warmer months. When she could leave the windows wide open, or curl up in a patch of sunlight that transformed anything into a world of possibilities. Marya merely smiled indulgently and braided flowers Hélène’s hair until she looked like some ancient earth goddess about to bestow her blessings on the soft grass below.

Seeing Hélène so carefree gave Marya ideas. One Sunday afternoon, with two weeks’ worth of her paychecks tucked into her purse, the redhead waltzed into the finest fabric store she could afford, and started her hunt. Mindful of Hélène’s many fine silk and chiffon dresses, Marya judged each and every piece the shopgirl suggested with a critical eye.

By the time she left over an hour later, no doubt to the relief of the long-suffering shopgirl, Marya had a bolt of chartreuse silk and black lace tucked under her arm, and enough artificial flowers to fill the Palace of Versailles in her bag.

None of Marya’s stylistic visions fit the changing fashions of Paris nor the elegance of the Russian elite, but she hoped Hélène would be pleased nonetheless.

A dress was not a scarf, Marya knew. And the experience of making her own dress several months prior had taught her a great many things. Namely, begin early, for time slowed for no one. Not even a dragon lady of Moscow.

She worked by moonlight, happiest surrounded by darkness and bathed only in faint moonbeams. Though she had no true measurements to draw from, Marya had a closet of clothing as references and the memory of Hélène’s body in her hands. Here, she did not hesitate, confidence radiating in every stitch and cut.

As the day of Hélène’s birth loomed ever closer, Marya worked diligently, never once rushing. She would finish when she finished.

And on the morning of Hélène’s birthday, a sunny Sunday in late August, Marya woke early and set to work. Breakfast in bed, a picnic basket for lunch, and the newly finished dress draped over the sofa. She even tied up her hair with a red satin ribbon just for Hélène to enjoy. (And if she herself had come to appreciate the frivolity of the ribbon for herself, well, no one needed to know that just yet.)

“I woke up and you weren’t there,” Hélène announced, flouncing out of the bedroom wrapped in nothing but a loose silk robe. Even after over half a year of seeing Hélène like this, Marya never failed to blush.

“I had to prepare for the special day ahead,” Marya said, kissing Hélène on the cheek. “Go back to bed. I’ll be in with breakfast in a moment.”

“But the sun is so much brighter in here,” Hélène declared, throwing open the window. In the early morning light, Hélène’s skin glowed, and how could Marya possibly deny her this?

They had breakfast on the floor of the sitting room, Hélène sprawled out on the rug, licking fruit from her fingertips. Marya with her back supported by the sofa, long legs tucked up underneath her.

“I used to hate birthdays once upon a time,” Hélène said, stretching like a cat. “It meant another year of lost youth. The height of tragedy for a vain woman such as myself. I used to believe youthful beauty to be the only virtue I had.”

“But you don’t believe such nonsense anymore,” Marya said, and though she phrased it as a statement, she meant it as a question.

“Not anymore, no,” Hélène said, glancing at Marya over her shoulder. “But I believe this may be the very first birthday I no longer dread. Thanks to you, _ma chérie_.”

“You are beautiful, Hélène,” Marya said, reaching out to stroke her glowing arm. “And I suspect you will always be beautiful, long after the rest of us have faded to dust. But you are more than mere beauty. You are clever, and kind, and passionate, and I love you dearly.”

“I believe you are the first person who ever saw something more in me. Before you, I never believed I had anything but beauty to offer. Now I know better. And for that, you have my gratitude.” Crawling across the floor, Hélène deposited herself in Marya’s lap and kissed her passionately.

She’d just managed to undo the top three buttons on Marya’s blouse when the redhead playfully pushed her back. “None of that so early. You haven’t even said anything about your present.” The dress, still spread out on the sofa, sat only an arm’s length away.

“On the contrary, darling,” Hélène said, taking the dress in her arms and spinning around with a delighted laugh. “I was merely waiting for you. But oh, it is simply gorgeous. Have you ever thought about becoming a tailor because I am quite positive I’ve never owned anything so delightful.”

“It’s hardly a masterpiece,” Marya said, waving away the compliment with a heated flush. “And it may not fit the way you are used to. I wanted it to be a surprise, but oh, I know I should have measured you. I can-” Marya reached up as if to take it back, but Hélène had already flung aside her robe to try the dress on.

Ignoring Marya’s indignant protest about parading about naked in front of an open window, Hélène shimmied into the green silk with ease. It fit like a glove. Breathing a sigh of relief, Marya did up the buttons, and smoothed out a few imaginary wrinkles. She couldn’t look at Hélène just yet. Not without swooning.

“Oh, Marya. It’s perfect. Does this mean you do approve of my scandalous fashion choices?” She twirled, forcing Marya to take her in in all her glory. And what a beautiful sight she was.

“Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves,” Marya managed, clearing her throat. “I still think it all a bit…much, but who am I to determine what you can and cannot wear? Or what you should or should not like.”

Putting aside her own old-school tendencies and modesty, Marya had shortened the hemline, deepened the neckline, and bared the shoulders. At first, she’d wanted to create Hélène a couture evening gown where she could be the envy of everyone at those parties of hers, but in the end, Marya had created a simple yet beautiful picnic dress Hélène could lounge about in.

“It’s a light and breathable material you won’t overheat in,” Marya explained, fretting with the sleeve of her blouse. “I know how petticoats and layered skirts are no longer in fashion, so I only lined it enough to be decent. And you’ve complained enough about corsets, so I tried to pad the bodice adequately enough to forgo such a garment if you wish, but I’m not sure it’s proper.”

“My ribs rejoice in your sacrifice, _ma chérie_. Oh, what a blessed relief to go about with a free chest. I yearn for the days such behavior is merely another aspect of life.” Hélène eyed her own cleavage with a critical eye. “Hm, though I suppose they don’t look nearly as perky now. What do you think, Marya?”

“I, um, you look lovely either way,” Marya said, trying not to stare. “But wait. I have something else. It’s silly, but I hope you’ll like it.” From inside a nearby cabinet, Marya withdrew two woven flower crowns, one grand, the other simple.

At the sight of them, Hélène’s eyes lit up. Removing the stick holding her curly hair in place, Hélène ducked her head for Marya to put the crown on. She looked every inch that earth goddess Marya secretly suspected her to be. Artificial carnations, hibiscus, and little petunias, all in warm shades of reds, oranges, and yellows, encircled Hélène’s head, woven together with bits of bright green foliage.

“And this one must be for you,” Hélène said, before Marya could disagree. But the redhead sighed indulgently and let Hélène adjust it to suit her. Hers was a simple circlet of woven wires covered in green ribbon and ivy leaves with only a few small accents of tiny red roses. “There. Now we are perfect together.”

They spent the day in blissful harmony, strolling along the streets of Paris, and picnicking in the prettiest park. Marya read her book in the shade of the trees while Hélène took in each and every ray of sun she could.

Not everyone appreciated their crowns of flowers. Proper ladies in ostentatious hats pointed and snickered, and while Hélène ignored such judgments, Marya glowered and sulked until Hélène patted her hand or distracted her with animated conversation. She did not want to take their judgment so seriously, but Marya did so detest being laughed at. After all those years as entertainment for wealthy partygoers, who all snickered behind their gloves, Marya rather thought she’d have been used to it. But it still stung nonetheless.

Like ribbons, Marya had to concede, flower crowns were meant for little girls. Not a woman of her considerable age. And while Hélène could make even the brownest of leaves look like the height of Parisian fashion, she could not.

“You look lovely,” Hélène murmured to her in Russian. Always in public, they spoke French so as to better blend into society, but sometimes having an extra language came in handy. “Do not listen to what those old biddies say.”

“I _am_ an old biddy, Elena,” Marya replied with a roll of her eyes. “And women with grey in their hair are too old to be weaving flowers around their heads in public. It’s different with you. You look like a Grecian goddess of nature. Like Gaia or Persephone.”

“I know I am younger than you, my dragon lady, but I am not _young_. Soon, I shall be an old woman, and I can only hope to look as elegant as you. Come. The heat is making me faint. Let’s go home.”

Marya protested that they need not leave because of her own insecurities, but Hélène insisted, and soon they were safe and sound in their little flat. Hélène once more commandeered a patch of sunlight in the sitting room, and Marya just watched her. Had she been able to emit hearts from her eyes, she would have.

“I love you,” Hélène said, and Marya’s heart stopped.

“You do?” And though her knees protested, Marya crawled onto the floor and sat next to Hélène, desperate to be close to her.

“I do. Which is why I know you are unhappy.” Putting a finger up to Marya’s protesting lips, she continued. “You are. You’ve been holding back, _ma_ _chérie_. And I’m telling you that you no longer need to. It took time, but I have fallen for you and have no desire to get up. You no longer need to fear being alone in your affection. Or fear me straying from your arms.”

“That was never my fear,” Marya said. For months, Hélène had not sought comfort in another’s arms, and though Marya would not have faulted her if she had, it had been a blessed relief to be the only one. To be special.

She gingerly laid down next to Hélène and wrapped an arm around her waist. Her back would never forgive her, but it had surely suffered worse. “I fear being too much for you. Too overbearing, and fawning. I fear you will tire of me. That you will feel suffocated in too much of my love.”

“On the contrary. I think it is exactly what I need. I’ve never been shown such…such _love_ before. It is as though your love reached out into every one of my cracks and filled me up and made me feel as though I could make myself whole again. It is wonderful and I accept each and every scrap. I only hope I can give enough in return.” Hélène turned her head away, as though ashamed. “I’m not very good at expressing genuine affection like this. And I don’t want you to feel neglected or…”

“Love isn’t a competition, my darling,” Marya said, stroking Hélène’s hair. She could feel the stiffness in her normally languid body, and scrambled for words to reassure her. “And people have different needs. I don’t need grand gestures of love, or flowers every day, or any of that. You are doing perfectly just as you are. Don’t think I don’t notice all you do. Little things like that, it’s perfect for me. And as for the rest of it, we’ll figure it all out. You and I are not easy women to love. It takes work and patience and concessions at times. But, I hope, you think it as worth the trouble as I do.”

“I know it is,” Hélène said, relaxing into Marya’s arms. “You, _ma chérie_ , are quite the handful, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Excellent,” Marya drawled, trying to hide the emotion suddenly welling up in her throat. “Now. Can we please get up off the floor before I break my back? There’s a perfectly decent bed we can lounge on without destroying what’s left of my spine.”

Marya graciously allowed Hélène to pull her to her feet, and they both pretended it wasn’t because she would have been stuck on the floor for the remainder of the day otherwise.

“I think there are more exciting things to do on that bed of ours,” Hélène said with a wink and giggle. “With much less clothing. But keep the flower crown on?”

Which was how Marya found herself in no less than half a dozen compromising, yet unimaginably pleasurable, positions. All with an absolutely ridiculous circlet of flowers in her hair. (And if Marya began to see the appeal, she knew better than to tell Hélène. She’d never hear the end of it it).

\-----

Marya couldn’t believe it. Here she was, barely eleven in the morning on a Saturday and she already felt exhaustion pulling at every bone in her body. Summer had passed in the blink of an eye, and the anniversary of her flight from Moscow looked ahead.

Tomorrow, for the first time since she and Hélène had moved in together, she would see her beautiful goddaughters and her old friend. No amount of letters in the world could compare to seeing them in the flesh. But their coming had brought out the worst in Marya’s neuroses. She’d spent most of the night before and that morning scrubbing the entire flat from rafters to rugs. And though Hélène attempted to help the night prior, Marya’s need for perfection and control eventually drove the other woman to storming away in a huff.

In the morning, Marya simmered down and humbly begged Hélène for forgiveness. And while they did make up, Marya still refused to let Hélène help.

“Enough of that,” Hélène said, seeing Marya rapidly approaching the end of her rope. “The flat has never been this clean in its life. We have enough liquor and tea to get us through a natural disaster, and Pierre’s going to be treating us all to lunch anyway. They’ll scarcely be here, darling. Come. Sit.”

“I just want everything to be perfect,” Marya said, wiping her hands on her apron. She knew she must look a sight, hair a wild mass of red curls underneath her kerchief, house dress wrinkled, no corset or stockings, dark circles under-

“Stop that,” Hélène said, keeping her voice nice and even. She drew Marya onto the sofa, pulled loose her kerchief, and began to stroke her hair. “I can hear you criticizing yourself in that big head of yours.”

“I just- I want them to see what we’ve made together. Even if they don’t know we’re…together.” Marya worried at the hem of her apron, folding it over onto itself again and again. “I mean, look at us. We don’t have servants anymore, or drivers, or anything but each other to rely on. And it’s difficult, but it’s something to be proud of and I want them to be proud of us.”

“They already are,” Hélène said, sounding so sure of herself. “And so am I. Now, stop fretting for just a moment and breathe. Lay here with me a moment?”

Marya could never resist Hélène. She relaxed back on the sofa and let Hélène climb into her arms. The weight of the smaller woman on her chest calmed her racing heart and anxiety, and soon Marya drifted off.

She woke sometime later to Hélène still nestled on her chest, but staring up at her as though she hung the moon in the sky. Blushing at being so thoughtfully scrutinized, Marya stroked Hélène’s curls absently.

“You’re just like a cat, aren’t you?” She mused, letting her eyes close once more. “I assure you, there are more comfortable places for you to rest your head than on my bony chest.”

“But none so pretty,” Hélène quipped, not missing a beat. Eyes still closed, Marya felt the heat travel down her face to said bony chest. “Feeling better now?”

“A bit, but I do have a few more things to do, darling. We can’t lie here all day.”

“Try and move me. I’m much too comfortable. And when Natasha gets here tomorrow you know we won’t have a moment to-”

A knock at the door shattered the tranquility. Wondering who on earth that could be, Marya raised her head just in time to see the very goddaughter Hélène spoke of peek her head inside.

“Marya! Hélène! You said to- oh!” Catching sight of them on the couch, Natasha blinked owlishly. And from behind her, Marya could just see Pierre and Sonya poking their heads up. And just like that, all the day’s panic came rushing back.

“Natalya!” Marya sat up, heart pounding and mortified to be caught in such a compromising position. She and Hélène may not have been doing much of anything at all, but she could hardly meet their visitors’ eyes. “We thought you were coming yesterday. I- I’m not-”

“Please, come in,” Hélène said, smoothly rising to her feet to escort them into the kitchen. “Make yourself at home, won’t you? There’s clearly been some sort of misunderstanding. If you would give Marya and I but a moment, we’ll clean up and join you soon.”

Without waiting for a response, Hélène took Marya’s arm and led her back into the bedroom. “It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay, _ma chérie_.”

“They were meant to come tomorrow,” Marya repeated, feeling her breath come in short gasps. “I’m not ready. I can’t- Look at me, I’m not presentable like this!” She was bordering on hysteria, Marya knew, but she couldn’t help it.

“Then we shall make you presentable,” Hélène said patiently. She sat Marya down at the vanity and began to smooth down her hair. “Come, you focus on your makeup, I’ll handle this.”

Hélène’s calmness was infectious, and soon Marya could feel her heartrate slow. With a few deep breaths, her hands stopped trembling enough for her to reach for her preferred shade of rouge. She’d not painted her lips in months.

They worked in tandem and within a quarter of an hour looked as though nothing amiss had happened. Marya wore the red dress she’d fashioned from Hélène’s gifted fabric, and conceded to the red ribbon in her hair after categorically refusing to agree to the flower crown. The woman in the mirror looked not quite the dragon lady she’d once been, but damn near close, and she felt her easy confidence returning.

“Natasha, Sonya,” Marya said in her boisterous voice, sweeping back into the main room with a flourish. “Apologies, apologies. But never mind that. You are here now. Oh, how I’ve missed you.” She enveloped both young women in a crushing hug which they returned with gusto.

“And you, old friend.” Though she and Pierre did not embrace, Marya squeezed the large man’s arm. He looked happy. Happier than he had been in some time. France suited him in ways Marya never would have guessed. Or perhaps Natasha suited him.

“Marya,” Natasha gushed. “What a lovely home you have here. And Hélène! Oh, I just love Paris. Isn’t it so very charming?”

“It is, indeed,” Hélène agreed with an indulgent laugh. “What a shame Pierre has you hidden away in the country. You would adore the parties the Russians of old throw. Next time you simply must stay for more than just a single day. You must come.”

“Yes, we must!” Natasha turned her wide open wondering eyes at Pierre, and Marya knew he would give in.

Heart bursting with pride and joy, Marya felt all her anxieties fall away. These were not judgmental harpies from the grand Russian society just waiting to fall upon any weakness. These were loved ones who Marya adored to no end.

The day’s rocky beginnings behind her, Marya led the most important people in her lives all around Paris. They ate gourmet food and Marya savored every bite, walked along the Seine, and even toured the Louvre. Luxury activities Marya had not done once in all her time in Paris. Out of everything Marya had given up in the name of scrimping and saving and living within her means, she missed art the most.

Oh, Hélène had offered dozens of times to treat Marya to a night of theatre and music and Opera, but Marya always declined. She knew Hélène’s riches were not nearly as grandiose as she’d once assumed, and more than that, she did not want to be a kept woman.

But perhaps…perhaps just once or twice a year.

Ahead, Natasha and Hélène had hooked arms and were chattering on a mile a minute with Pierre trailing just behind, happy just to listen. Marya and Sonya followed at a sedate pace. The young woman had matured a great deal since she and Natasha had come to stay at her home in Moscow that fateful winter.

She’d been so very meek then, trailing after Natasha and always worrying. Marya knew now the immense pressure Sonya had always felt upon her petite shoulders. She was glad to see the young woman looking so relaxed and happy.

“Princess Mary has been treating you well, I take it?” Marya asked, smiling down at her goddaughter. She didn’t expect Sonya to flush – a picture prefect imitation of herself whenever Hélène did…well anything, really – and grow dreamy-eyed.

“She’s been wonderful, Marya. I-” Sonya looked around and lowered her voice to a whisper – “I don’t mean to pry, but you and Hélène…”

Well, there could be no denying it, Marya supposed. She gave a curt nod, but brushed her hand over Sonya’s forearm to show she didn’t mind being asked.

“Mary and I…we…It sort of just crept up on us. But she’s just so lovely. And here in France, there is so much less pressure to…I mean, with Mary, um, supporting me, I won’t need to marry.”

How queer it was that they had both found love in such an unexpected place, Marya thought, beaming down at Sonya. She knew very little of Princess Mary Bolkonskaya but for what she’d seen a lifetime ago in Moscow. Meek and plain, but a good Christian woman stifled by that horrid father of hers. With him gone, Marya hoped Mary had come into her own just a bit. She must have to be bold enough to pursue her new companion.

“You must take care to always have enough money on your own,” Marya cautioned, fixing Sonya with a severe gaze. “Your beloved may be a kind person, but even the kindest of us may fall. And I only want you safe, my dear. You are a remarkable young woman who deserves the world.”

=“Oh, no,” Sonya said, blushing and looking to the ground. “I’m not special, Marya. I am the same as…well, as anybody else. But I will take care to heed your advice. Even if I know Mary would never turn me out with nothing.”

“You are more special than you give yourself credit, Sonya. And that young woman sees it in you. She is very lucky indeed. Just as I am to have found someone. I never thought it possible at my age, you know. And that person being who it is, I could not have predicted such a strange match.”

“You seem very smitten,” Sonya teased gently, nudging Marya with her elbow. “And happy. How did you two even…? I mean, it always seemed as though you two got on as oil and water. And then suddenly Natasha wrote to say you’d moved into a flat together.”

Marya considered herself to be a private person when it came to such matters. But she suddenly found herself yearning to tell Sonya everything. Well, everything proper, at least. She’d not had an outside confidant, and Hélène deserved to be gushed over with all the love Marya owed her.

“We nearly killed each other at first. I never thought such an arrangement could last, and then I saw a different side of Hélène. A real one. Not whatever mask she wears for the rest of the world. And it was so beautiful. She is clever, and philosophical, and kind. And when she stands in the sunlight, oh, she could be a goddess. One night it all just…came bursting forth.” Marya blushed, catching Sonya’s eye. At the way the younger redhead also turned a light shade of pink, Marya could only assume she’d cottoned on to Marya’s meaning.

“How did you realize so easily? I mean, Mary and I, we struggled. We still do sometimes. Is that bad?”

“Oh, no, my dear girl,” Marya said, squeezing Sonya’s shoulder. “Not at all. Hélène and I are difficult women to love. We have our own hang-ups we must work though. And I myself spiraled for a great many weeks after it began. I have carried such guilt over the years. All my life, just like you, I did everything I was supposed to as a woman. As a wife and mother. But I prayed, and pondered, and realized I needed to do something for me. And Hélène and I struggled just as you and Mary do. I suspect we will never not struggle or argue or clash in some grandiose way. But we’ve learned how to navigate each other and ourselves so much better. Hélène and I are more alike than we’d ever thought. And we compliment each other well. But sometimes we are burdensome, and we have to work through whatever is wrong. It takes effort. Love takes effort. Never let anyone tell you it is easy. Relationships require work.”

“That’s a relief to hear. Oh, not that you two argue sometimes. But that it’s okay. Thank you, Marya. I- perhaps this Christmas… I mean, I want Mary to meet you. And Hélène. Properly. Do you think you might come visit us?”

Tears stung at the corners of Marya’s eyes, and she drew Sonya into a tight hug. “Yes, dear. I would like nothing more. Go on, I think Natasha is calling you.” She gave Sonya a playful swat and watched the young woman hurry to her cousin’s side. It filled her with such warmth and relief to know she would not feel the same loneliness this year.

And one day soon, this hellish war would end, and they could rejoice. Marya did not know what the future held. A year spent in Paris and already her life had turned itself upside down half a dozen times. She counted her lucky stars that a dragon always landed right side up.

And who could say what another year would bring? A sudden windfall and an estate in the country, or perhaps a devastating loss and a shanty along the river. Marya found she did not care. She had all she needed. And with Hélène by her side, clever beautiful Hélène, she felt she could tackle anything the world set before her.

“What are you thinking, _ma chérie_?” Hélène asked, linking arms. “Has dear little Sonya figured us out? I fear we were not subtle this morning.”

“We most certainly were not. Honestly, Elena, what did I say about keeping the door locked even while we’re in the flat?” Marya gave Hélène a mock-stern glare, but the other woman knew her too well and merely batter her eyelashes, the picture of innocence. “Sonya is happy for us. And may have a little Marya of her own to love.”

“The princess,” Hélène said, her beautiful smile growing. “How sweet they must be. But alas, I snagged the prettiest Marya in all of Russia.” She gave the blushing redhead a wink.

“You are a terrible flirt. We’re in public, Elena. Behave yourself or you’ll find yourself in an empty bed tonight.” But Marya didn’t mean it. She never did.

“Natasha is equally thrilled for us,” Hélène said, after a stretch of silence. “And Pierre, though the poor man nearly turned the color of your beautiful hair when Natasha mentioned it. She’ll want to talk to you about it, I’m sure. But just know they will case you no grief. And you know the strangest thing? Natasha did not seem a bit surprised. Oh, and she wants to know when we plan to have a “wedding” of sorts.”

Scoffing incredulously, Marya shook her head at her goddaughter’s gall. “They’d have us guillotined for certain over a stunt like that. I swear, that girl’s cheek will be the death of me.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hélène said in that airy way of hers that Marya had come to recognize as a shield of sorts. “After my disastrous first marriage, I vowed never to allow myself to be entrapped again. I don’t know. Maybe if it’s you my opinion may change.

Marya nearly stumbled over her own feet, but Hélène held fast. Marry her? She had never even considered such a thing. A union like that would never ben legally recognized, but… Did Marya even want to be married, even symbolically? Was this Hélène’s coy way of asking? Marriage had not been kind to either of them before. Marya just did not know.

“Who knows what the next year will bring,” she said vaguely. She squeezed Hélène’s hand and received a carefree smile in response. “There’s a war going on out there. I don’t know, Hélène. Perhaps one day. For now, I am grateful for the blessing I have been given. The rest will fall into place. I’m sure of it.”

Up ahead, Natasha called out to them, waving wildly. And Marya saw the beautiful grown woman she had become, but also that little waist-height girl who had stared up at her unflinchingly and loudly proclaimed her bravery in the face of the dragon.

“We best not keep her waiting,” Hélène said, the fondness in her eyes plain to see. “After you, my terrible, terrible dragon lady.”

And Marya threw her head back and laughed. A dragon lady indeed. 

**Author's Note:**

> All the stuff I wanted to add, but didn't get to:
> 
> After the war ends, Marya loses her factory job because the men come home and this is what happened unfortunately. She finds another job as a seamstress though so it's all good. 
> 
> At some point, Hélène and Marya have a conversation about how Marya totally has a praise kink, but is also into light degradation at the same time and Marya's incredibly embarrassed, but Hélène finds it adorable. 
> 
> Hélène is a switch and sometimes wants Marya to top her, but Marya's such a bottom so it takes her some time to get comfortable enough to do that. But also, Marya's very bossy so she eventually comes around. 
> 
> Marya and Hélène never do get symbolically married. They're happy how things are and given past marriage experiences, don't really want to bring that baggage into their relationship. 
> 
> Yes, Marya lets Hélène treat her to an Opera every now and then.


End file.
